UC-NRLF 


B    3    SbT    Eflfl 


IS 


•BOOTH- 
TARKINGTON- 


LIBRARY 

UNtVWfitY  OP 
CAUFORt 
SANTA  CRU2 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


The  Gentleman  from  Indiana 

Monsieur  Beaucaire 

The  Two  Van  Revels 

Cherry 

In  the  Arena 

The  Conquest  of  Canaan 

The  Beautiful  Lady 


"  Standing with  the  mellow  glow  of  candles 

and  firelight  behind  her ' ' 


HIS  •  OWN 
•  PEOPLE • 


BOOTH 
TARKINGTON 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

LAWRENCE  MAZZANOVICH 
AND  F.  R.  GRUGER 

DECORATED   BY 

WM.  ST.  JOHN  HARPER 


NEW  YORK 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO. 

1907 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1 907,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 


Published  October, 


A II  rights  reserved, 

including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages 
including  the  Scandinavian. 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS 


A172- 


i  A  CHANGE  OF  LODGING      ....       3 

II        MUSIC  ON  THE  PlNCIO 26 

in     GLAMOUR •  '••••     39 

iv  GOOD-FELLOWSHIP    .     .     .     .     .     .     51 

v  LADY  MOUNT-RHYSWICKE      ...     69 

vi  RAKE'S  PROGRESS      ...     .     .     .     84 

vii     THE  NEXT  MORNING 103 

vni  WHAT  CORNISH  KNEW      ,     .     .     .116 

ix  EXPIATION       ........  132 

x  THE  CAB  AT  THE  CORNER  .     .     .     .139 


•  LIST  •  OF  - 
ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Standing  .  .  .  with  the  mellow  glow  of 
candles  and  firelight  behind  her"  Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

"  Inheritor  of  all  that  had  belonged  to  the 
late  great  Cooley " 12 

uThe  Comtesse  de  Vaurigard"  ....      14 

"  'I  toP  you  I  would  come  here  for  my 
drive' " 28 

"Monsieur  Sneyd" 40 

"  The  Honorable  Chandler  Pedlow  "  .     .     54 


H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE 


A • CHANGE • OF 
•  LODGING  • 


i 


glass-domed  "palm-room" 
of  the  Grand  Continental  Ho- 
tel Magnifique  in  Rome  is  of 
vasty  heights  and  distances,  filled  with  a 
mellow  green  light  which  filters  down 
languidly  through  the  upper  foliage  of 
tall  palms,  so  that  the  two  hundred  peo- 
ple who  may  be  refreshing  or  displaying 
themselves  there  at  the  tea-hour  have 
something  the  look  of  under-water  crea- 
tures playing  upon  the  sea-bed.  They 
appear,  however,  to  be  unaware  of  their 
condition;  even  the  ladies,  most  like 


•  HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

anemones  of  that  gay  assembly,  do  not 
seem  to  know  it;  and  when  the  Hun- 
garian band  (crustacean-like  in  cos- 
tume, and  therefore  well  within  the  pic- 
ture) has  sheathed  its  flying  tentacles 
and  withdrawn  by  dim  processes,  the 
tea-drinkers  all  float  out  through  the 
doors,  instead  of  bubbling  up  and  away 
through  the  filmy  roof.  In  truth,  some 
such  exit  as  that  was  imagined  for  them 
by  a  young  man  who  remained  in  the 
aquarium  after  they  had  all  gone,  late 
one  afternoon  of  last  winter.  They  had 
been  marvelous  enough,  and  to  him 
could  have  seemed  little  more  so  had 
they  made  such  a  departure.  He  could 
almost  have  gone  that  way  himself,  so 
charged  was  he  with  the  uplift  of  his  be- 
lief that,  in  spite  of  the  brilliant 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 


strangeness  of  the  hour  just  past,  he  had 
been  no  fish  out  of  water. 

While  the  waiters  were  clearing  the 
little  tables,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
in  a  content  so  rich  it  was  nearer  ecstasy. 
He  could  not  bear  to  disturb  the  posses- 
sion joy  had  taken  of  him,  and,  like  a 
half-awake  boy  clinging  to  a  dream  that 
his  hitherto  unkind  sweetheart  has 
kissed  him,  lingered  on  in  the  enchanted 
atmosphere,  his  eyes  still  full  of  all  they 
had  beheld  with  such  delight,  detaining 
and  smiling  upon  each  revelation  of  this 
fresh  memory — the  flashingly  lovely 
faces,  the  dreamily  lovely  faces,  the 
pearls  and  laces  of  the  anemone  ladies, 
the  color  and  romantic  fashion  of  the 
uniforms,  and  the  old  princes  who  had 
been  pointed  out  to  him:  splendid  old 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

men  wearing  white  mustaches  and  sin- 
gle eye-glasses,  as  he  had  so  long  hoped 
and  dreamed  they  did. 

"Mine  own  people!"  he  whispered. 
"I  have  come  unto  mine  own  at  last. 
Mine  own  people !"  After  long  waiting 
(he  told  himself),  he  had  seen  them — 
the  people  he  had  wanted  to  see,  wanted 
to  know,  wanted  to  be  of!  Ever  since  he 
had  begun  to  read  of  the  "beau  monde" 
in  his  schooldays,  he  had  yearned  to 
know  some  such  sumptuous  reality  as 
that  which  had  come  true  to-day,  when, 
at  last,  in  Rome  he  had  seen — as  he 
wrote  home  that  night — "the  finest  es- 
sence of  Old- World  society  mingling  in 
Cosmopolis." 

Artificial  odors  (too  heavy  to  keep  up 
with  the  crowd  that  had  worn  them) 


•H  IS-OWN-  PEOPLE- 

still  hung  about  him;  he  breathed  them 
deeply,  his  eyes  half-closed  and  his  lips 
noiselessly  formed  themselves  to  a  quo- 
tation from  one  of  his  own  poems : 

While  trails  of  scent,  like  cobweb's  films 

Slender  and  faint  and  rare, 
Of  roses,  and  rich,  fair  fabrics, 

Cling  on  the  stirless  air, 
The  sibilance  of  voices, 

At  a  wave  of  Milady's  glove, 
Is  stilled 

He  stopped  short,  interrupting  him- 
self with  a  half-cough  of  laughter  as  he 
remembered  the  inspiration  of  these 
verses.  He  had  written  them  three 
months  ago,  at  home  in  Cranston,  Ohio, 
the  evening  after  Anna  McCord's  "com- 
ing-out tea."  "Milady"  meant  Mrs. 
McCord;  she  had  "stilled"  the  con  versa- 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

tion  of  her  guests  when  Mary  Kramer 
(whom  the  poem  called  a  ' 'sweet,  pale 
singer")  rose  to  sing  Mavourneen;  and 
the  stanza  closed  with  the  right  word  to 
rhyme  with  "glove."  He  felt  a  con- 
temptuous pity  for  his  little,  untrav- 
eled,  provincial  self  of  three  months 
ago,  if,  indeed,  it  could  have  been  him- 
self who  wrote  verses  about  Anna  Mc- 
Cord's  "coming-out  tea"  and  referred  to 
poor,  good  old  Mrs.  McCord  as  "Mi- 
lady"! 

The  second  stanza  had  intimated  a 
conviction  of  a  kind  which  only  poets 
may  reveal : 

She  sang  to  that  great  assembly, 

They  thought,  as  they  praised  her  tone ; 

But  she  and  my  heart  knew  better : 
Her  song  was  for  me  alone. 


•  HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

He  had  told  the  truth  when  he  wrote 
of  Mary  Kramer  as  pale  and  sweet,  and 
she  was  paler,  but  no  less  sweet,  when  he 
came  to  say  good-by  to  her  before  he 
sailed.  Her  face,  as  it  was  at  the  final 
moment  of  the  protracted  farewell, 
shone  before  him  very  clearly  now  for  a 
moment:  young,  plaintive,  white,  too 
lamentably  honest  to  conceal  how  much 
her  "God-speed"  to  him  cost  her.  He 
came  very  near  telling  her  how  fond  of 
her  he  had  always  been;  came  near  giv- 
ing up  his  great  trip  to  remain  with  her 
always. 

"Ah!"  He  shivered  as  one  shivers 
at  the  thought  of  disaster  narrowly 
averted.  "The  fates  were  good  that  I 
only  came  near  it!" 

He  took  from  his  breast-pocket  an  en- 


-HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

graved  card,  without  having  to  search 
for  it,  because  during  the  few  days  the 
card  had  been  in  his  possession  the  ac- 
tion had  become  a  habit. 

"Comtesse  de  Vaurigard,"  was  the 
name  engraved,  and  below  was  written 
in  pencil :  "To  remember  Monsieur  Rob- 
ert Russ  Mellin  he  promise  to  come  to 
tea  Hotel  Magnifique,  Roma,  at  five 
o'clock  Thursday." 

THERE  had  been  disappointment  in  the 
first  stages  of  his  journey,  and  that  had 
gone  hard  with  Mellin.  Europe  had 
been  his  goal  so  long,  and  his  hopes  of 
pleasure  grew  so  high  when  (after  his 
years  of  saving  and  putting  by,  bit  by 
bit,  out  of  his  salary  in  a  real-estate  of- 
fice) he  drew  actually  near  the  shining 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

horizon.  But  London,  his  first  stopping- 
place,  had  given  him  some  dreadful 
days.  He  knew  nobody,  and  had  not 
understood  how  heavily  sheer  loneliness 
— which  was  something  he  had  never 
felt  until  then — would  weigh  upon  his 
spirits.  In  Cranston,  where  the  young 
people  "grew  up  together,"  and  where 
he  met  a  dozen  friends  on  the  street  in  a 
half-hour's  walk,  he  often  said  that  he 
"liked  to  be  alone  with  himself."  Lon- 
don, after  his  first  excitement  in  merely 
being  there,  taught  him  his  mis- 
take, chilled  him  with  weeks  of  for- 
bidding weather,  puzzled  and  troubled 
him. 

He  was  on  his  way  to  Paris  when  (as 
he  recorded  in  his  journal)  a  light  came 
into  his  life.  This  illumination  first 

CM  3 


•HIS-O  WN-PEOPLE- 

shone  for  him  by  means  of  one  Cooley, 
son  and  inheritor  of  all  that  had  be- 
longed to  the  late  great  Cooley,  of  Coo- 
ley  Mills,  Connecticut.  Young  Cooley, 
a  person  of  cheery  manners  and  bright 
waistcoats,  was  one  of  Mellin's  few  sea- 
acquaintances;  they  had  played  shuffle- 
board  together  on  the  steamer  during 
odd  half-hours  when  Mr.  Cooley  found 
it  possible  to  absent  himself  from  poker 
in  the  smoking-room;  and  they  encoun- 
tered each  other  again  on  the  channel 
boat  crossing  to  Calais. 

"Hey!"  was  Mr.  Cooky's  lively 
greeting.  "I  'm  meetin'  lots  of  people  I 
know,  to-day.  You  runnin'  over  to 
Paris,  too?  Come  up  to  the  boat-deck 
and  meet  the  Countess  de  Vaurigard." 

"Who?"  said  Mellin,  red  with  pleas- 


o 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

ure,  yet  fearing  that  he  did  not  hear 
aright. 

"The  Countess  de  Vaurigard.  Queen ! 
met  her  in  London.  Sneyd  intro- 
duced me  to  her.  You  remember  Sneyd 
on  the  steamer?  Baldish  Englishman 
— red  nose — does  n't  talk  much — 
younger  brother  of  Lord  Rugden,  so 
he  says.  Played  poker  some.  Well, 
yes!33 

"I  saw  him.  I  did  n't  meet  him." 
"You  did  n't  miss  a  whole  lot.  Fact 
is,  before  we  landed  I  almost  had  him 
sized  up  for  queer,  but  when  he  intro- 
duced me  to  the  Countess  I  saw  my  mis- 
take. He  must  be  the  real  thing.  She 
certainly  is!  You  come  along  up  and 


see.'3 


So  Mellin  followed,  to  make  his  bow 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

before  a  thin,  dark,  charmingly  pretty 
young  woman,  who  smiled  up  at  him 
from  her  deck-chair  through  an  enhanc- 
ing mystery  of  veils;  and  presently  he 
found  himself  sitting  beside  her.  He 
could  not  help  trembling  slightly  at 
first,  but  he  would  have  given  a  great 
deal  if,  by  some  miraculous  vision, 
Mary  Kramer  and  other  friends  of  his  in 
Cranston  could  have  seen  him  engaged 
in  what  he  thought  of  as  "conversa- 
tional badinage"  with  the  Comtesse  de 
Vaurigard. 

Both  the  lady  and  her  name  thrilled 
him.  He  thought  he  remembered  the 
latter  in  Froissart:  it  conjured  up  "ba- 
ronial halls"  and  "donjon  keeps,"  rang 
resonantly  in  his  mind  like  "Let  the 
portcullis  fall!"  At  home  he  had  been 

CH3 


The  Comtesse  de  Vaurigard1' 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

wont  to  speak  of  the  "oldest  families  in 
Cranston,"  complaining,  of  the  inva- 
sions of  "new  people"  into  the  social 
territory  of  the  McCords  and  Mellins 
and  Kramers — a  pleasant  conception 
which  the  presence  of  a  De  Vaurigard 
revealed  to  him  as  a  petty  and  shameful 
fiction ;  and  yet  his  humility,  like  his  lit- 
tle fit  of  trembling,  was  of  short  dura- 
tion, for  the  gay  geniality  of  Madame 
de  Vaurigard  put  him  amazingly  at 
ease. 

At  Calais  young  Cooley  (with  a  mat- 
ter-of-course air,  and  not  seeming  to 
feel  the  need  of  asking  permission)  ac- 
companied her  to  a  compartment,  and 
Mellin  walked  with  them  to  the  steps  of 
the  coach,  where  he  paused,  murmuring 
some  words  of  farewell. 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Madame  de  Vaurigard  turned  to  him 
with  a  prettily  assumed  dismay. 

"What!  You  stay  at  Calais?"  she 
cried,  pausing  with  one  foot  on  the  step 
to  ascend.  "Oh!  I  am  sorry  for  you. 
Calais  is  ter-rible!" 

"No.    I  am  going  on  to  Paris." 

"So?  You  have  frien's  in  another 
coach  which  you  wish  to  be  wiz?" 

"No,  no,  indeed,"  he  stammered  has- 
tily. 

"Well,  my  frien',"  she  laughed  gayly, 
"w'y  don'  you  come  wiz  us?" 

Blushing,  he  followed  Cooley  into 
the  coach,  to  spend  five  happy  hours,  ut- 
terly oblivious  of  the  bright  French 
landscape  whirling  by  outside  the  win- 
dow. 

There  ensued  a  month  of  conscien- 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

tious  sightseeing  in  Paris,  and  that  un- 
friendly city  afforded"  him  only  one 
glimpse  of  the  Countess.  She  whizzed 
by  him  in  a  big  touring-car  one  after- 
noon as  he  stood  on  an  "isle  of  safety" 
at  the  foot  of  the  Champs  Elysees. 
Cooley  was  driving  the  car.  The  raffish, 
elderly  Englishman  (whose  name,  Mel- 
lin  knew,  was  Sneyd)  sat  with  him,  and 
beside  Madame  de  Vaurigard  in  the  ton- 
neau  lolled  a  gross-looking  man — un- 
mistakably an  American — with  a  jovial, 
red,  smooth-shaven  face  and  several 
chins.  Brief  as  the  glimpse  was,  Mellin 
had  time  to  receive  a  distinctly  disagree- 
able impression  of  this  person,  and  to 
wonder  how  Heaven  could  vouchsafe 
the  society  of  Madame  de  Vaurigard  to 
so  coarse  a  creature. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

*— i  ^—>  "i  f— 'p=Tf=*  --»  g-5"g£->  r-^^— T  *— J  *— "— *  ^"^  t-^r^A  g— 1 1— *  ^-i «—  ^-^i-^*  *-^  t— '  »-n  t—^  *— ""^  ^^'g-^  *— i  r— *  ^=^=3  *— <  r-» 

All  the  party  were  dressed  as  for  the 
road,  gray  with  dust,  and  to  all  appear- 
ances in  a  merry  mood.  Mellin's  heart 
gave  a  leap  when  he  saw  that  the  Coun- 
tess recognized  him.  Her  eyes,  shining 
under  a  white  veil,  met  his  for  just  the 
instant  before  she  was  quite  by,  and 
when  the  machine  had  passed  a  little 
handkerchief  waved  for  a  moment  from 
the  side  of  the  tonneau  where  she  sat. 

With  that  he  drew  the  full  breath  of 
Romance. 

He  had  always  liked  to  believe  that 
"grandes  dames'  leaned  back  in  the 
luxurious  upholstery  of  their  victorias, 
landaulettes,  daumonts  or  automobiles 
with  an  air  of  inexpressible  though  lan- 
guid hauteur.  The  Newport  letter  in 
the  Cranston  Telegraph  often  referred 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

to  it.  But  the  gayety  of  that  greeting 
from  the  Countess'  little  handkerchief 
was  infinitely  refreshing,  and  Mellin 
decided  that  animation  was  more  becom- 
ing than  hauteur — even  to  a  "grande 
dame." 

That  night  he  wrote  (almost  without 
effort)  the  verses  published  in  the  Cran- 
ston Telegraph  two  weeks  later.  They 
began : 

Marquise,  ma  belle,  with  your  kerchief  of 

lace 

Awave  from  your  flying  car, 
And  your  slender  hand — 

The  hand  to  which  he  referred  was 
the  same  which  had  arrested  his  gondola 
and  his  heart  simultaneously,  five  days 
ago,  in  Venice.  He  was  on  his  way  to 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

the  station  when  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard's  gondola  shot  out  into  the  Grand 
Canal  from  a  narrow  channel,  and  at 
her  signal  both  boats  paused. 

"Ah!  but  you  fly  away!"  she  cried, 
lifting  her  eyebrows  mournfully,  as 
she  saw  the  steamer-trunk  in  his  gon- 
dola. "You  are  goin'  return  to  Amer- 
ica?' 

"No.  I  'm  just  leaving  for  Rome." 
"Well,  in  three  day'  /  am  goin5  to 
Rome!"  She  clapped  her  hands  lightly 
and  laughed.  "You  know  this  is  three 
time'  we  meet  jus'  by  chance,  though 
that  second  time  it  was  so  quick — pff! 
like  that — we  did  n't  talk  much  togez- 
zer!  Monsieur  Mellin,"  she  laughed 
again,  "I  think  we  mus'  be  frien's. 
Three  time' — an'  we  are  both  goin'  to 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Rome!  Monsieur  Mellin,  you  believe 
in  Fate?" 

With  a  beating  heart  he  did. 

Thence  came  the  invitation  to  meet 
her  at  the  Magnifique  for  tea,  and  the 
card  she  scribbled  for  him  with  a  silver 
pencil.  She  gave  it  with  the  prettiest 
gesture,  leaning  from  her  gondola  to  his 
as  they  parted.  She  turned  again, 
as  the  water  between  them  widened, 
and  with  her  "Au  revoir"  offered 
him  a  faintly  wistful  smile  to  remem- 
ber. 

All  the  way  to  Rome  the  noises  of  the 
train  beat  out  the  measure  of  his  Pari- 
sian verses : 

Marquise,  ma  belle,  with  your  kerchief  of 

lace 
Awave  from  your  flying  car — 


H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE 


He  came  out  of  his  reverie  with  a 
start.  A  dozen  men  and  women,  dressed 
for  dinner,  with  a  gold-fish  officer  or 
two  among  them,  swam  leisurely 
through  the  aquarium  on  their  way  to  the 
hotel  restaurant.  They  were  the  same 
kind  of  people  who  had  sat  at  the  little 
tables  for  tea — people  of  the  great 
world,  thought  Mellin :  no  vulgar  tour- 
ists or  "trippers"  among  them;  and  he 
shuddered  at  the  remembrance  of  his 
pension  (whither  it  was  time  to  return) 
and  its  conscientious  students  of  Baede- 
ker, its  dingy  halls  and  permanent  smell 
of  cold  food.  Suddenly  a  high  resolve 
lit  his  face :  he  got  his  coat  and  hat  from 
the  brass-and-blue  custodian  in  the 
lobby,  and  without  hesitation  entered 
the  "bureau/' 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"I  Jm  not  quite  satisfied  where  I  am 
staying — where  I  'm  stopping,  that  is," 
he  said  to  the  clerk.  "I  think  I  '11  take 
a  room  here." 

"Very  well,  sir.  Where  shall  I  send 
for  your  luggage?" 

"I  shall  bring  it  myself,"  replied  Mel- 
lin  coldly,  "in  my  cab." 

He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  re- 
veal the  fact  that  he  was  staying  at  one 
of  the  cheaper  pensions;  and  it  may  be 
mentioned  that  this  reticence  (as  well 
as  the  somewhat  chilling,  yet  careless, 
manner  of  a  gentleman  of  the  "great 
world"  which  he  assumed  when  he  re- 
turned with  his  trunk  and  bag)  very 
substantially  increased  the  rate  put  upon 
the  room  he  selected  at  the  Magnifique. 
However,  it  was  with  great  satisfaction 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

that  he  found  himself  installed  in  the 
hotel,  and  he  was  too  recklessly  exhila- 
rated, by  doing  what  he  called  the  "right 
thing,"  to  waste  any  time  wondering 
what  the  "right  thing"  would  do  to  the  di- 
minishing pad  of  express  checks  he  car- 
ried in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  waistcoat. 

"Better  live  a  fortnight  like  a  gentle- 
man," he  said,  as  he  tossed  his  shoes  into 
a  buhl  cabinet,  "than  vegetate  like  a 
tourist  for  a  year." 

He  had  made  his  entrance  into  the 
"great  world"  and  he  meant  to  hold  his 
place  in  it  as  one  "to  the  manor  born." 
Its  people  should  not  find  him  lacking : 
he  would  wear  their  manner  and  speak 
their  language — no  gaucherie  should  be- 
tray him,  no  homely  phrase  escape  his 
lips. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

This  was  the  chance  he  had  always 
hoped  for,  and  when  he  fell  asleep  in  his 
gorgeous,  canopied  bed,  his  soul  was  up- 
lifted with  happy  expectations. 


MUSIC  •  ON  •  THE 
•PINCIO 


I 


following  afternoon  found 
him  still  in  that  enviable  con- 
dition as  he  stood  listening  to 
the  music  on  the  Pincian  Hill.  He  had 
it  of  rumor  that  the  Fashion  of  Rome 
usually  took  a  turn  there  before  it  went 
to  tea,  and  he  had  it  from  the  lady  her- 
self that  Madame  de  Vaurigard  would 
be  there.  Presently  she  came,  reclining 
in  a  victoria,  the  harness  of  her  horses 
flashing  with  gold  in  the  sunshine.  She 
wore  a  long  ermine  stole;  her  hat  was 
ermine;  she  carried  a  muff  of  the  same 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE 


fur,  and  Mellin  thought  it  a  perfect 
finish  to  the  picture  that  a  dark  gentle- 
man of  an  appearance  most  distin- 
guished should  be  sitting  beside  her.  An 
Italian  noble,  surely ! 

She  saw  the  American  at  once,  nodded 
to  him  and  waved  her  hand.  The  vic- 
toria went  on  a  little  way  beyond  the 
turn  of  the  drive,  drew  out  of  the  line  of 
carriages,  and  stopped. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Mellin,"  she  cried,  as 
he  came  up,  "I  am  glad!  I  was  so  fool- 
ish yesterday  I  did  n'  give  you  the  ad- 
dress of  my  little  apartment  an'  I  forgot 
to  ask  you  what  is  your  hotel.  I  tol'  you 
I  would  come  here  for  my  drive,  but  still 
I  might  have  lost  you  for  ever.  See  what 
many  people!  It  is  jus'  that  Fate  again." 

She  laughed,  and  looked  to  the  Italian 


•H  IS-O  WN-PEO  PLE- 

for  sympathy  in  her  kindly  merriment. 
He  smiled  cordially  upon  her,  then  lifted 
his  hat  and  smiled  as  cordially  upon 
Mellin. 

"I  am  so  happy  to  fin'  myself  in  Rome 
that  I  forget" — Madame  de  Vaurigard 
went  on — "ever  sing!  But  now  I  mus' 
make  sure  not  to  lose  you.  What  is  your 
hotel?" 

"Oh,  the  Magnifique,"  Mellin  an- 
swered carelessly.  "I  suppose  every- 
body that  one  knows  stops  there.  One 
does  stop  there,  when  one  is  in  Rome, 
does  n't  one?" 

"Everybody  go'  there  for  tea,  and  to 
eat,  sometime,  but  to  stay — ah,  that  is 
for  the  American !"  she  laughed.  "That 
is  for  you  who  are  all  so  abomin-^-ly 
rich!"  She  smiled  to  the  Italian  again, 


*  I  tol '  you  I  would  come  here  for  my  drive '  * 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

and  both  of  them  smiled  beamingly  on 
Mellin. 

"But  that  is  n't  always  our  fault,  is 
it?"  said  Mellin  easily. 

"Aha !  You  mean  you  are  of  the  new 
generation,  of  the  yo'ng  American'  who 
come  over  here  an'  try  to  spen'  these  im- 
mense fortune' — those  'pile' — your  fa- 
ther or  your  gran' father  make!  I  know 
quite  well.  Ah?" 

"Well,"  he  hesitated,  smiling,  "I  sup- 
pose it  does  look  a  little  by  way  of  being 
like  that." 

"Wicked  fellow!"  She  leaned  for- 
ward and  tapped  his  shoulder  chidingly 
with  two  fingers.  "I  know  what  you 
wish  the  mos'  in  the  worl' — you  wish  to 
get  into  mischief.  That  is  it !  No,  sir,  I 
will  jus'  take  you  in  han' !" 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"When  will  you  take  me?"  he  asked 
boldly. 

At  this,  the  pleasant  murmur  of  laugh- 
ter— half  actual  and  half  suggested — 
with  which  she  underlined  the  conversa- 
tion, became  loud  and  clear,  as  she  al- 
lowed her  vivacious  glance  to  strike 
straight  into  his  upturned  eyes,  and  an- 
swered : 

"As  long  as  a  little  turn  roun5  the  hill, 
now.  Cavaliere  Corni " 

To  Mellin's  surprise  and  delight  the 
Italian  immediately  descended  from  the 
victoria  without  the  slightest  appear- 
ance of  irritation;  on  the  contrary,  he 
was  urbane  to  a  fine  degree,  and,  upon 
Madame  de  Vaurigard's  formally  intro- 
ducing him  to  Mellin,  saluted  the  latter 
with  grave  politeness,  expressing  in  good 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

English  a  hope  that  they  might  meet 
often.  When  the  Afnerican  was  in- 
stalled at  the  Countess'  side  she  spoke  to 
the  driver  in  Italian,  and  they  began  to 
move  slowly  along  the  ilex  avenue, 
the  coachman  reining  his  horses  to  a 
walk. 

"You  speak  Italian?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,  not  a  great  deal  more  than  a 
smattering,"  he  replied  airily — a  truth- 
ful answer,  inasmuch  as  a  vocabulary 
consisting  simply  of  " quant y  costy"  and 
"troppo"  cannot  be  seriously  considered 
much  more  than  a  smattering.  Fortu- 
nately she  made  no  test  of  his  linguistic 
attainment,  but  returned  to  her  former 
subject. 

"Ah,  yes,  all  the  woiT  to-day  know' 
the  new  class  of  American,"  she  said — 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"your  class.  Many  year'  ago  we  have 
another  class  which  Europe  did  n'  like. 
That  was  when  the  American  was  ter-ri- 
ble !  He  was  the — what  is  that  you  call  ? 
— oh,  yes;  he  'make  himself/  you  say: 
that  is  it.  My  frien',  he  was  abomin- 
ablel  He  brag';  he  talk'  through  the 
nose;  yes,  and  he  was  niggardly,  rich  as 
he  was !  But  you,  you  yo'ng  men  of  the 
new  generation,  you  are  gentlemen  of 
the  idleness;  you  are  aristocrats,  with 
polish  an'  with  culture.  An'  yet  you 
throw  your  money  away — yes,  you 
throw  it  to  poor  Europe  as  if  to  a 
beggar!" 

"No,  no,"  he  protested  with  an  indul- 
gent laugh  which  confessed  that  the 
truth  was  really  "Yes,  yes." 

"Your  smile  betray'  you!"  she  cried 
[323 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

triumphantly.  "More  than  jus'  bein' 
guilty  of  that  fault,  I  am  goin'  to  tell 
you  of  others.  You  are  not  the  ole-time 
— what  is  it  you  say? — Ah,  yes,  the 
'goody-goody.'  I  have  heard  my  great 
American  frien',  Honor-able  Chanlair 
Pedlow,  call  it  the  Sonday-school.  Is 
it  not?  Yes,  you  are  not  the  Son- 
day-school  yo'ng  men,  you  an'  your 
class!" 

"No,"  he  said,  bestowing  a  long  glance 
upon  a  stout  nurse  who  was  sitting  on  a 
bench  near  the  drive  and  attending  to 
twins  in  a  perambulator.  "No,  we  're 
not  exactly  dissenting  parsons." 

"Ah,  no !"    She  shook  her  head  at  him 

prettily.     "You  are  wicked!     You  are 

up  into  all  the  mischief!     Have  I  not 

hear  what  wild  sums  you  risk  at  your 

C333 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

&rj^r^^gjSEsass^i^^^^^.^Fat--.,-'i'==n=j-^.-ii-.wj.^^w.,^i^^-ii-^^-i^^i-,t.j» 

game,  that  poker?  You  are  famous  for 
it." 

"Oh,  we  play,"  he  admitted  with  a 
reckless  laugh,  "and  I  suppose  we  do 
play  rather  high." 

"High!"  she  echoed.  "Souzands! 
But  that  is  not  all.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  naughty 
one !  Have  I  not  observe'  you  lookin'  at 
these  pretty  creature',  the  little  conta- 
dina-girl,  an'  the  poor  ladies  who  have 
hire'  their  carriages  for  two  lire  to  drive 
up  and  down  the  Pincio  in  their  bes' 
dress  an'  be  admire'  by  the  yo'ng  Ameri- 
can while  the  music  play'  ?  Which  one, 
I  wonder,  is  it  on  whose  wrist  you  would 
mos'  like  to  fasten  a  bracelet  of  dia- 
mon's?  Wicked,  I  have  watch'  you  look 
at  them " 

"No,  no,"  he  interrupted  earnestly. 
C343 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE 


"I  have  not  once  looked  away  from  you, 
I  could  ntr 

Their  eyes  met,  but  instantly  hers 
were  lowered;  the  bright  smile  with 
which  she  had  been  rallying  him  faded, 
and  there  was  a  pause  during  which  he 
felt  that  she  had  become  very  grave. 
When  she  spoke,  it  was  with  a  little 
quaver,  and  the  controlled  pathos  of  her 
voice  was  so  intense  that  it  evoked  a 
sympathetic  catch  in  his  own  throat. 

"But,  my  frien',  if  it  should  be  that  I 
cannot  wish  you  to  look  so  at  me,  or  to 
speak  so  to  me?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  exclaimed, 
almost  incoherently.  "I  did  n't  mean  to 
hurt  your  feelings.  I  would  n't  do  any- 
thing you  'd  think  ungentlemanly  for 
the  world!" 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Her  eyes  lifted  again  to  his  with  what 
he  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  as  a 
look  of  perfect  trust;  but,  behind  that, 
he  perceived  a  darkling  sadness. 

"I  know  it  is  true,"  she  murmured — 
"I  know.  But  you  see  there  are  time' 
when  a  woman  has  sorrow — sorrow  of 
one  kind — when  she  mus'  be  sure  that 
there  is  only — only  rispec'  in  the  hearts 
of  her  frien's." 

With  that,  the  intended  revelation 
was  complete,  and  the  young  man  under- 
stood, as  clearly  as  if  she  had  told  him  in 
so  many  words,  that  she  was  not  a  widow 
and  that  her  husband  was  the  cause  of 
her  sorrow.  His  quickened  instinct  mar- 
velously  divined  (or  else  it  was  con- 
veyed to  him  by  some  intangible  method 
of  hers)  that  the  Count  de  Vaurigard 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

was  a  very  bad  case,  but  that  she  would 
not  divorce  him. 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  profoundly 
touched.  "I  understand." 

In  silent  gratitude  she  laid  her  hand 
for  a  second  upon  his  sleeve.  Then  her 
face  brightened,  and  she  said  gayly: 

"But  we  shall  not  talk  of  me!  Let  us 
see  how  we  can  keep  you  out  of  mischief 
at  leas'  for  a  little  while.  I  know  very 
well  what  you  will  do  to-night :  you  will 
go  to  Salone  Margherita  an'  sit  in  a  box 
like  all  the  wicked  Americans " 

"No,  indeed,  I  shall  not!" 

"Ah,  yes,  you  will!"  she  laughed. 
"But  until  dinner  let  me  keep  you  from 
wickedness.  Come  to  tea  jus'  wiz  me, 
not  at  the  hotel,  but  at  the  little  apart- 
ment I  have  taken,  where  it  is  quiet. 
ITS?] 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

The  music  is  finish',  an'  all  those  pretty 
girl'  are  goin'  away,  you  see.  I  am  not 
selfish  if  I  take  you  from  the  Pincio  now. 
You  will  come?" 


IT  was  some  fair  dream  that  would  be 
gone  too  soon,  he  told  himself,  as 
they  drove  rapidly  through  the  twi- 
light streets,  down  from  the  Pincio  and 
up  the  long  slope  of  the  Quirinal.    They 
came  to  a  stop  in  the  gray  courtyard  of  a 
palazzo,  and  ascended  in  a  sleepy  elevator 
to  the  fifth  floor.  Emerging,  they  encoun- 
tered a  tall  man  who  was  turning  away 
from  the  Countess'  door,  whichhe had  just 
closed.  The  landing  was  not  lighted,  and 
for  a  moment  he  failed  to  see  the  Amer- 
ican following  Madame  de  Vaurigard. 
[393 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

"Eow,  it  's  you,  is  it,"  he  said  infor- 
mally. "Waitin'  a  devil  of  a  long  time 
for  you.  I  've  gawt  a  message  for  you. 
He  3s  comin'.  He  writes  that  Cooley — " 

"Attention!"  she  interrupted  under 
her  breath,  and,  stepping  forward 
quickly,  touched  the  bell.  "I  have 
brought  a  f  rien5  of  our  dear,  droll  Cooley 
with  me  to  tea.  Monsieur  Mellin,  you 
mus'  make  acquaintance  with  Monsieur 
Sneyd.  He  is  English,  but  we  shall  for- 
give him  because  he  is  a  such  ole  frien' 
of  mine." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Mellin.  "Remember 
seeing  you  on  the  boat,  running  across 
the  pond." 

"Yes,  ev  coss,"  responded  Mr.  Sneyd 
cordially.  "I  waws  n't  so  fawchnit  as 
to  meet  you,  but  dyuh  eold  Cooley  's 


\ 


"Monsieur  Sneyd  " 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

talked  ev  you  often.  Heop  I  sh'll  see 
maw  of  you  hyuh." 

A  very  trim,  very  intelligent-looking 
maid  opened  the  door,  and  the  two  men 
followed  Madame  de  Vaurigard  into  a 
square  hall,  hung  with  tapestries  and  lit 
by  two  candles  of  a  Brobdingnagian  spe- 
cies Mellin  had  heretofore  seen  only  in 
cathedrals.  Here  Mr.  Sneyd  paused. 

"I  weon't  be  bawthring  you,"  he  said. 
"Just  a  wad  with  you,  Cantess,  and  I  'm 
off." 

The  intelligent-looking  maid  drew 
back  some  heavy  curtains  leading  to  a 
salon  beyond  the  hall,  and  her  mistress 
smiled  brightly  at  Mellin. 

"I  shall  keep  him  to  jus'  his  one  word," 
she  said,  as  the  young  man  passed  be- 
tween the  curtains. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

It  was  a  nobly  proportioned  room  that 
he  entered,  so  large  that,  in  spite  of  the 
amount  of  old  furniture  it  contained, 
the  first  impression  it  gave  was  one  of 
spaciousness.  Panels  of  carved  and 
blackened  wood  lined  the  walls  higher 
than  his  head;  above  them,  Spanish 
leather  gleamed  here  and  there  with 
flickerings  of  red  and  gilt,  reflecting 
dimly  a  small  but  brisk  wood  fire  which 
crackled  in  a  carved  stone  fireplace.  His 
feet  slipped  on  the  floor  of  polished  tiles 
and  wandered  from  silky  rugs  to  lose 
themselves  in  great  black  bear  skins  as 
in  unmown  sward.  He  went  from  the 
portrait  of  a  "cinquecento"  cardinal  to 
a  splendid  tryptich  set  over  a  Gothic 
chest,  from  a  cabinet  sheltering  a  collec- 
tion of  old  glass  to  an  Annunciation  by 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

an  unknown  Primitive.  He  told  him- 
self that  this  was  a  "room  in  a  book," 
and  became  dreamily  assured  that  he 
was  a  man  in  a  book.  Finally  he  stum- 
bled upon  something  almost  grotesquely 
out  of  place:  a  large,  new,  perfectly- 
appointed  card-table  with  a  sliding  top, 
a  smooth,  thick,  green  cover  and  patent 
compartments. 

He  halted  before  this  incongruity, 
regarding  it  with  astonishment.  Then 
a  light  laugh  rippled  behind  him,  and 
he  turned  to  find  Madame  de  Vaurigard 
seated  in  a  big  red  Venetian  chair  by  the 
fire. 

She  wore  a  black  lace  dress,  almost 
severe  in  fashion,  which  gracefully  em- 
phasized her  slenderness;  and  she  sat 
with  her  knees  crossed,  the  firelight 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

twinkling  on  the  beads  of  her  slipper, 
on  her  silken  instep,  and  flashing  again 
from  the  rings  upon  the  slender  fingers 
she  had  clasped  about  her  knee. 

She  had  lit  a  thin,  long  Russian  ciga- 
rette. 

"You  see?"  she  laughed.  "I  mus' 
keep  up  with  the  time.  I  mus'  do  some- 
sing  to  hold  my  frien's  about  me.  Even 
the  ladies  like  to  play  now — that 
breedge  w'ich  is  so  tiresome — they  play, 
play,  play!  And  you — you  Americans, 
you  refuse  to  endure  us  if  we  do  not  let 
you  play.  So  for  my  frien's  when  they 
come  to  my  house — if  they  wish  it,  there 
is  that  foolish  little  table.  I  fear" — she 
concluded  with  a  bewitching  affectation 
of  sadness — "they  prefer  that  to  talkin' 


wiz  me." 


1441 


•  HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"You  know  that  could  n't  be  so,  Com- 
tesse"  he  said.  "I  wotild  rather  talk  to 
you  than — than " 

"Ah,  yes,  you  say  so,  Monsieur !"  She 
looked  at  him  gravely;  a  little  sigh 
seemed  to  breathe  upon  her  lips;  she 
leaned  forward  nearer  the  fire,  her  face 
wistful  in  the  thin,  rosy  light,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  he  had  never  seen  any- 
thing so  beautiful  in  his  life. 

He  came  across  to  her  and  sat  upon  a 
stool  at  her  feet.  "On  my  soul,"  he  be- 
gan huskily,  "I  swear " 

She  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips,  shaking 
her  head  gently;  and  he  was  silent, 
while  the  intelligent  maid — at  that  mo- 
ment entering — arranged  a  tea-table 
and  departed. 

"American  an'  Russian,  they  are  the 
C45H 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

worse,"  said  the  Countess  thoughtfully, 
as  she  served  him  with  a  generous  cup, 
laced  with  rum,  "but  the  American  he  is 
the  bes'  to  play  wiz"  Mellin  found  her 
irresistible  when  she  said  "wiz." 

"Why  is  that?" 

"Oh,  the  Russian  play  high,  yes — but 
the  American" — she  laughed  delight- 
edly and  stretched  her  arms  wide — "he 
make'  it  all  a  joke!  He  is  beeg  like  his 
beeg  country.  If  he  win  or  lose,  he  don' 
care !  Ah,  I  mus'  tell  you  of  my  great 
American  frien',  that  Honor-able  Chan- 
lair  Pedlow,  who  is  comin'  to  Rome. 
You  have  heard  of  Honor-able  Chanlair 
Pedlow  in  America?" 

"I  remember  hearing  that  name." 

"Ah,  I  shall  make  you  know  him.    He 
is  a  man  of  distinction;  he  did  sit  in 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

your  Chamber  of  Deputies — what  you 
call  it? — yes,  your  Con-gress.  He  is 
funny,  eccentric — always  he  roar  like  a 
lion — Bourn! — but  so  simple,  so  good, 
a  man  of  such  fine  heart — so  lovable!" 

"I  '11  be  glad  to  meet  him,"  said  Mel- 
lin  coldly. 

"An',  oh,  yes,  I  almos'  forget  to  tell 
you,"  she  went  on,  "your  frien',  that 
dear  Cooley,  he  is  on  his  way  from 
Monte  Carlo  in  his  automobile.  I  have 
a  note  from  him  to-day." 

"Good  sort  of  fellow,  little  Cooley, 
in  his  way,"  remarked  her  companion 
graciously.  "Not  especially  intellec- 
tual or  that,  you  know.  His  father  was 
a  manufacturer  chap,  I  believe,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  I  suppose  you  saw  a 
lot  of  him  in  Paris?" 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"Eh,  I  thought  he  is  dead!"  cried  Ma- 
dame de  Vaurigard. 

"The  father  is.  I  mean,  little  Cooley." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  laughed  softly.  "We 
had  some  gay  times,  a  little  party  of  us. 
We  shall  be  happy  here,  too;  you  will 
see.  I  mus'  make  a  little  dinner  very 
soon,  but  not  unless  you  will  come.  You 
will?" 

"Do  you  want  me  very  much?" 

He  placed  his  empty  cup  on  the  table 
and  leaned  closer  to  her,  smiling.  She 
did  not  smile  in  response;  instead,  her 
eyes  fell  and  there  was  the  faintest,  pa- 
thetic quiver  of  her  lower  lip. 

"Already  you  know  that,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice. 

She  rose  quickly,  turned  away  from 
him  and  walked  across  the  room  to  the 
C483 


•HIS-O  WN-PEOPLE- 

curtains  which  opened  upon  the  hall. 
One  of  these  she  drew  back. 

"My  frien',  you  mus'  go  now,"  she 
said  in  the  same  low  voice.  "To-mor- 
row I  will  see  you  again.  Come  at  four 
an5  you  shall  drive  with  me — but  not — 
not  more — now.  Please!" 

She  stood  waiting,  not  looking  at  him, 
but  with  head  bent  and  eyes  veiled. 
As  he  came  near  she  put  out  a  limp  hand. 
He  held  it  for  a  few  seconds  of  distinctly 
emotional  silence,  then  strode  swiftly 
into  the  hall. 

She  immediately  let  the  curtain  fall 
behind  him,  and  as  he  got  his  hat 
and  coat  he  heard  her  catch  her 
breath  sharply  with  a  sound  like  a  little 
sob. 

Dazed  with  glory,  he  returned  to  the 
C493 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

hotel.    In  the  lobby  he  approached  the 
glittering  concierge  and  said  firmly: 

"What   is   the   Salone    Margherita? 
Can  you  get  me  a  box  there  to-night?" 


IV 

•    ' 

GOOD-FELLOWSHIP 


HE  confessed  his  wickedness  to 
Madame    de   Vaurigard   the 
next  afternoon  as  they  drove 
out  the  Appian  Way.     "A  fellow  must 
have  just  a  bit  of  a  fling,  you  know,"  he 
said;  "and,  really,  Salone  Margherita 
is  n't  so  tremendously  wicked." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  in  friendly 
raillery.  "Ah,  that  may  be;  but  how 
many  of  those  little  dancing-girl'  have 
you  invite  to  supper  afterward?" 

This  was  a  delicious  accusation,  and 
though  he  shook  his  head  in  virtuous  de- 


•HIS-O  WN-PEOPLE- 

nial  he  was  before  long  almost  con- 
vinced that  he  had  given  a  rather  dash- 
ing supper  after  the  vaudeville  and  had 
not  gone  quietly  back  to  the  hotel,  only 
stopping  by  the  way  to  purchase  an  or- 
ange and  a  pocketful  of  horse-chestnuts 
to  eat  in  his  room. 

It  was  a  happy  drive  for  Robert  Russ 
Mellin,  though  not  happier  than  that  of 
the  next  day.  Three  afternoons  they 
spent  driving  over  the  Campagna,  then 
back  to  Madame  de  Vaurigard's  apart- 
ment for  tea  by  the  firelight,  till  the  en- 
raptured American  began  to  feel  that 
the  dream  in  which  he  had  come  to  live 
must  of  happy  necessity  last  forever. 

On  the  fourth  afternoon,  as  he  stepped 
out  of  the  hotel  elevator  into  the  corri- 
dor, he  encountered  Mr.  Sneyd. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"Just  stottin',  eh?"  said  the  English- 
man, taking  an  envelope  from  his 
pocket.  "Lucky  I  caught  you.  This  is 
for  you.  I  just  saw  the  Cantess  and  she 
teold  me  to  give  it  you.  Kerry  and 
read  it  and  kem  on  t'  the  Amairikin 
Baw.  Chap  I  want  you  to  meet.  Eold 
Cooley's  thy  ah  too.  Gawt  in  with  his 


tourin'-caw  at  noon.5 


"You  will  forgive,  dear  friend,"  wrote  Mad- 
ame de  Vaurigard,  "if  I  ask  you  that  we  re- 
nc  unce  our  drive  to-day.  You  see,  I  wish  to 
have  that  little  dinner  to-night  and  must  make 
preparation.  Honorable  Chandler  Pedlow  ar- 
rived this  morning  from  Paris  and  that  droll  Mr. 
Cooley  I  have  learn  iscoincidentally  arrived  also. 
You  see  I  think  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to 
have  the  dinner  to  welcome  these  friends  on  their 
arrival.  You  will  come  surely — or  I  shall  be 
so  truly  miserable.  You  know  it  perhaps  too 
well !  We  shall  have  a  happy  evening  if  you 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

come,  to  console  us  for  renouncing  our  drive. 
A  thousand  of  my  prettiest  wishes  for  you. 

"HELENE." 

The  signature  alone  consoled  him. 
To  have  that  note  from  her,  to  own  it, 
was  like  having  one  of  her  gloves  or  her 
fan.  He  would  keep  it  forever,  he 
thought;  indeed,  he  more  than  half  ex- 
pressed a  sentiment  to  that  effect  in  the 
response  which  he  wrote  in  the  aqua- 
rium, while  Sneyd  waited  for  him  at  a 
table  near  by.  The  Englishman  drew 
certain  conclusions  in  regard  to  this  re- 
ply, since  it  permitted  a  waiting  friend 
to  consume  three  long  tumblers  of 
brandy-and-soda  before  it  was  finished. 
However,  Mr.  Sneyd  kept  his  reflec- 
tions to  himself,  and,  when  the  epistle 
had  been  dispatched  by  a  messenger, 


"The  Honorable  Chandler  Pedlow  " 


-HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

took  the  American's  arm  and  led  him  to 
the  "American  Bar"  of 'the  hotel,  a  re- 
gion hitherto  unexplored  by  Mellin. 

Leaning  against  the  bar  were  Cooley 
and  the  man  whom  Mellin  had  seen  loll- 
ing beside  Madame  de  Vaurigard  in 
Cooley's  automobile  in  Paris,  the  same 
gross  person  for  whom  he  had  instantly 
conceived  a  strong  repugnance,  a  feel- 
ing not  at  once  altered  by  a  closer  view. 

Cooley  greeted  Mellin  uproariously 
and  Mr.  Sneyd  introduced  the  fat  man. 
"Mr.  Mellin,  the  Honorable  Chandler 
Pedlow,"  he  said;  nor  was  the  shock  to 
the  first-named  gentleman  lessened  by 
young  Cooley's  adding,  "Best  feller  in 
the  world!" 

Mr.  Pedlow's  eyes  were  sheltered  so 
deeply  beneath  florid  rolls  of  flesh  that 
[553 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

all  one  saw  of  them  was  an  inscrutable 
gleam  of  blue;  but,  small  though  they 
were,  they  were  not  shifty,  for  they  met 
Mellin's  with  a  squareness  that  was  al- 
most brutal.  He  offered  a  fat  paw,  wet 
by  a  full  glass  which  he  set  down  too 
suddenly  on  the  bar. 

"Shake,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  and  husky 
voice,  "and  be  friends!  Tommy,"  he 
added  to  the  attendant,  "another  round 
of  Martinis." 

"Not  for  me,"  said  Mellin  hastily. 
"I  don't  often—" 

"What!"  Mr.  Pedlow  roared  sud- 
denly. "Why,  the  first  words  Countess 
de  Vaurigard  says  to  me  this  afternoon 
was,  'I  want  you  to  meet  my  young 
friend  Mellin/  she  says;  'the  gamest  lit- 
tle Indian  that  ever  come  down  the  pike ! 
[56] 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

He  's  game/  she  says — 'he  '11  see  you 
all  under  the  table!'  That  's  what  the 
smartest  little  woman  in  the  world,  the 
Countess  de  Vaurigard,  says  about  you." 

This  did  not  seem  very  closely  to  echo 
Madame  de  Vaurigard' s  habit  of  phras- 
ing, but  Mellin  perceived  that  it  might 
be  only  the  fat  man's  way  of  putting 
things. 

"You  ain't  goin'  back  on  her,  are 
you?"  continued  Mr.  Pedlow.  "You 
ain't  goin'  to  make  her  out  a  liar?  I  tell 
you,  when  the  Countess  de  Vaurigard 
says  a  man  's  game,  he  is  game!"  He 
laid  his  big  paw  cordially  on  Mellin's 
shoulder  and  smiled,  lowering  his  voice 
to  a  friendly  whisper.  "And  I  '11  bet 
ten  thousand  dollars  right  out  of  my 
pants  pocket  you  are  game,  too!" 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

He  pressed  a  glass  into  the  other's 
hand.  Smiling  feebly,  the  embarrassed 
Mellin  accepted  it. 

"Make  it  four  more,  Tommy,"  said 
Pedlow.  "And  here,"  continued  this 
thoughtful  man,  "I  don't  go  bandying 
no  ladies'  names  around  a  bar-room — 
that  ain't  my  style — but  I  do  want  to 
propose  a  toast.  I  won't  name  her,  but 
you  all  know  who  I  mean." 

"Sure  we  do,"  interjected  Cooley 
warmly.  "Queen!  That  's  what  she 


is." 


"Here  Js  to  her,"  continued  Mr.  Ped- 
low. "Here  's  to  her — brightest  and 
best — and  no  heel-taps !  And  now  let 's 
set  down  over  in  the  corner  and  take  it 
easy.  It  ain't  hardly  five  o'clock  yet, 
and  we  can  set  here  comfortable,  gittin' 

[583 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

ready  for  dinner,  until  half-past  six, 
anyway." 

Whereupon  the  four  seated  them- 
selves about  a  tabouret  in  the  corner, 
and,  a  waiter  immediately  bringing 
them  four  fresh  glasses  from  the  bar, 
Mellin  began  to  understand  what  Mr. 
Pedlow  meant  by  "gittin5  ready  for  din- 
ner." The  burden  of  the  conversation 
was  carried  almost  entirely  by  the  Hon- 
orable Chandler,  though  Cooley,  whose 
boyish  face  was  deeply  flushed,  now  and 
then  managed  to  interrupt  by  talking 
louder  than  the  fat  man.  Mr.  Sneyd  sat 
silent. 

"Good  ole  Sneyd,"  said  Pedlow. 
"He  never  talks,  jest  saws  wood.  Only 
Britisher  I  ever  liked.  Plays  cards  like 
a  goat." 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"He  played  a  mighty  good  game  on 
the  steamer,"  said  Cooley  warmly. 

"I  don't  care  what  he  did  on  the 
steamer,  he  played  like  a  goat  the  only 
time  /  ever  played  with  him.  You  know 
he  did.  I  reckon  you  was  there!" 

"Should  say  I  was  there !  He  played 
mighty  well — " 

"Like  a  goat,"  reiterated  the  fat  man 
firmly. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  You  had  a  run 
of  hands,  that  was  all.  Nobody  can  go 
against  the  kind  of  luck  you  had  that 
night;  and  you  took  it  away  from  Sneyd 
and  me  in  rolls.  But  we  '11  land 
you  pretty  soon,  won't  we,  ole  Sney- 
die?" 

"We  sh'll  have  a  shawt  at  him,  at 
least,"  said  the  Englishman. 


•  HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"Perhaps  he  won't  want  us  to  try," 
young  Cooley  pursued  derisively.  '  Ter- 
haps  he  thinks  /  play  like  a  goat,  too!" 

Mr.  Pedlow  threw  back  his  head  and 
roared.  "Give  me  somep'n  easy!  You 
don't  know  no  more  how  to  play  a  hand 
of  cards  than  a  giraffe  does.  I  '11  throw 
in  all  of  my  Blue  Gulch  gold-stock — 
and  it  's  worth  eight  hundred  thousand 
dollars  if  it 's  worth  a  cent — I  '11  put  it 
up  against  that  tin  automobile  of  yours, 
divide  chips  even  and  play  you  freeze- 
out  for  it.  You  play  cards?  Go  learn 
hop-scotch!" 

"You  wait!"  exclaimed  the  other  in- 
dignantly. "Next  time  we  play  we  '11 
make  you  look  so  small  you  '11  think 
you  're  back  in  Congress!" 

At  this  Mr.  Pedlow  again  threw  back 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

his  head  and  roared,  his  vast  body  so 
shaken  with  mirth  that  the  glass  he  held 
in  his  hand  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"There,"  said  Cooley,  "that  's  the  sec- 
ond Martini  you  've  spilled.  You  're 
two  behind  the  rest  of  us." 

"What  of  it?"  bellowed  the  fat  man. 
"There  's  plenty  comin',  ain't  there? 
Four  more,  Tommy,  and  bring  cigars. 
Don't  take  a  cent  from  none  of  these 
Indians.  Gentlemen,  your  money  ain't 
good  here.  I  own  this  bar,  and  this  is 
my  night." 

Mellin  had  begun  to  feel  at  ease,  and 
after  a  time — as  they  continued  to  sit — 
he  realized  that  his  repugnance  to  Mr. 
Pedlow  was  wearing  off;  he  felt  that 
there  must  be  good  in  any  one  whom 
Madame  de  Vaurigard  liked.  She  had 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

spoken  of  Pedlow  often  on  their  drives ; 
he  was  an  "eccentric,"  she  said,  an  "orig- 
inal." Why  not  accept  her  verdict? 
Besides,  Pedlow  was  a  man  of  distinc- 
tion and  force;  he  had  been  in  Congress; 
he  was  a  millionaire ;  and,  as  became  evi- 
dent in  the  course  of  a  long  recital  of 
the  principal  events  of  his  career,  most 
of  the  great  men  of  the  time  were  his 
friends  and  proteges. 

"  'Well,  Mack/  says  I  one  day  when 
we  were  in  the  House  together" — (thus 
Mr.  Pedlow,  alluding  to  the  late  Presi- 
dent McKinley)—  "'Mack,'  says  I,  'if 
you  'd  drop  that  double  standard  busi- 
ness'— he  was  waverin'  toward  silver 
along  then — 1  don't  know  but  I  might 
git  the  boys  to  nominate  you  f er  Presi- 
dent.' 1  '11  think  it  over,'  he  says— 1  '11 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

think  it  over.'  You  remember  me  tellin' 
you  about  that  at  the  time,  don't  you, 
Sneyd,  when  you  was  in  the  British  Le- 
gation at  Washin'ton?" 

"Pahfictly,"  said  Mr.  Sneyd,  lighting 
a  cigar  with  great  calmness. 

"'Yes,'  I  says,  'Mack,'  I  says,  'if 
you  '11  drop  it,  I  '11  turn  in  and  git  you 
the  nomination.' : 

"Did  he  drop  it?"  asked  Mellin  in- 
nocently. 

Mr.  Pedlow  leaned  forward  and 
struck  the  young  man's  knee  a  resound- 
ing blow  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"He  was  nominated,  was  n't  he?" 

"Time  to  dress,"  announced  Mr. 
Sneyd,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"One  more  round  first,"  insisted 
Cooley  with  prompt  vehemence.  "Let 's 


•HIS-O  WN-PEOPLE- 

finish  with  our  first  toast  again.  Can't 
drink  that  too  often."  ' 

This  proposition  was  received  with 
warmest  approval,  and  they  drank 
standing. 

"Brightest  and  best!"  shouted  Mr. 
Pedlow. 

"Queen!  What  she  is!"  exclaimed 
Cooley. 

"Ma  belle  Marquise!"  whispered 
Mellin  tenderly,  as  the  rim  touched  his 
lips. 

A  small,  keen-faced  man,  whose 
steady  gray  eyes  were  shielded  by  tor- 
toise-rimmed spectacles,  had  come  into 
the  room  and  now  stood  quietly  at  the 
bar,  sipping  a  glass  of  Vichy.  He  was 
sharply  observant  of  the  party  as  it 
broke  up,  Pedlow  and  Sneyd  preceding 
C65] 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

^^^r^^^=S^^^^^=T^^r^^^r->*=^7='>--,r->l-^^C£Z^='l—,~-'l-^r^a<==r^^^^J. 

the  younger  men  to  the  corridor,  and,  as 
the  latter  turned  to  follow,  the  stranger 
stepped  quickly  forward,  speaking  Cool- 
ey's  name. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Perhaps  you  don't  remember  me. 
My  name  's  Cornish.  I  'm  a  newspaper 
man,  a  correspondent."  (He  named  a 
New  York  paper.)  "I  'm  down  here  to 
get  a  Vatican  story.  I  knew  your  father 
for  a  number  of  years  before  his  death, 
and  I  think  I  may  claim  that  he  was  a 
friend  of  mine." 

"That  's  good,"  said  the  youth  cor- 
dially. "If  I  had  n't  a  fine  start  already, 
and  was  n't  in  a  hurry  to  dress,  we  'd 
have  another." 

"You  were  pointed  out  to  me  in 
Paris,"  continued  Cornish.  "I  found 
C66H 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

where  you  were  staying  and  called  on 
you  the  next  day,  but  you  had  just 
started  for  the  Riviera."  He  hesitated, 
glancing  at  Mellin.  "Can  you  give  me 
half  a  dozen  words  with  you  in  pri- 
vate?" 

"You  '11  have  to  excuse  me,  I  'm 
afraid.  I '  ve  only  got  about  ten  minutes 
to  dress.  See  you  to-morrow." 

"I  should  like  it  to  be  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible," the  journalist  said  seriously.  "It 
is  n't  on  my  own  account,  and  I " 

"All  right.  You  come  to  my  room  at 
ten  t'  morrow  morning?" 

"Well,  if  you  can't  possibly  make  it 
to-night,"  said  Cornish  reluctantly.  "I 
wish " 

"Can't  possibly." 

And  Cooley,  taking  Mellin  by  the 


•HIS-O  WN-PEO  PLE- 

arm,  walked  rapidly  down  the  corridor. 
"Funny  ole  correspondent,"  he  mur- 
mured. "What  do  /  know  about  the 
Vatican?" 


C683 


v  . 

LADY  •  MOUNT-RHYSWICKE 


i 


four  friends  of  Madame  de 
Vaurigard  were  borne  to  her 
apartment  from  the  Magnif- 
ique  in  Cooley's  big  car.  They  sailed 
triumphantly  down  and  up  the  hills  in  a 
cool  and  bracing  air,  under  a  moon  that 
shone  as  brightly  for  them  as  it  had  for 
Caesar,  and  Mellin's  soul  was  buoyant 
within  him.  He  thought  of  Cranston 
and  laughed  aloud.  What  would  Cran- 
ston say  if  it  could  see  him  in  a  sixty- 
horse  touring-car,  with  two  millionaires 
and  an  English  diplomat,  brother  of  an 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

earl,  and  all  on  the  way  to  dine  with  a 
countess?  If  Mary  Kramer  could  see 
him!  .  .  .  Poor  Mary  Kramer!  Poor 
little  Mary  Kramer ! 

A  man-servant  took  their  coats  in 
Madame  de  Vaurigard's  hall,  where 
they  could  hear  through  the  curtains  the 
sound  of  one  or  two  voices  in  cheerful 
conversation. 

Sneyd  held  up  his  hand. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "Shawly,  that 
is  n't  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke's  voice! 
She  could  n't  be  in  Reom — always  a 
Rhyswicke  Caws' 1  for  Decembah.  By 
Jev,  it  is!" 

"Nothin'  of  the  kind,"  said  Pedlow. 
"I  know  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  as 
well  as  I  know  you.  I  started  her  father 
in  business  when  he  was  clerkin'  behind 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

a  counter  in  Liverpool.  I  give  him  the 
money  to  begin  on.  'Make  good,'  says 
I,  'that  's  all.  Make  good!'  And  he 
done  it,  too.  Educated  his  daughter  fit 
fer  a  princess,  married  her  to  Mount- 
Rhyswicke,  and  when  he  died  left  her 
ten  million  dollars  if  he  left  her  a  cent ! 
I  know  Madge  Mount-Rhyswicke  and 
that  ain't  her  voice." 

A  peal  of  silvery  laughter  rang  from 
the  other  side  of  the  curtain. 

"They  've  heard  you,"  said  Cooley. 

"An'  who  could  help  it?"  Madame 
de  Vaurigard  herself  threw  back  the  cur- 
tains. "Who  could  help  hear  our  great, 
dear,  ole  lion?  How  he  roar' !" 

She  wore  a  white  velvet  "princesse" 
gown  of  a  fashion  which  was  a  shade  less 
than  what  is  called  "daring,"  with  a 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE 


rope  of  pearls  falling  from  her  neck  and 
a  diamond  star  in  her  dark  hair.  Stand- 
ing with  one  arm  uplifted  to  the  cur- 
tains, and  with  the  mellow  glow  of  can- 
dles and  firelight  behind  her,  she  was  so 
lovely  that  both  Mellin  and  Cooley 
stood  breathlessly  still  until  she  changed 
her  attitude.  This  she  did  only  to  move 
toward  them,  extending  a  hand  to  each, 
letting  Cooley  seize  the  right  and  Mel- 
lin the  left. 

Each  of  them  was  pleased  with  what 
he  got,  particularly  Mellin.  "The  left 
is  nearer  the  heart,"  he  thought. 

She  led  them  through  the  curtains,  not 
withdrawing  her  hands  until  they  en- 
tered the  salon.  She  might  have  led 
them  out  of  her  fifth-story  window  in 
that  fashion,  had  she  chosen. 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"My  two  wicked  boys!"  she  laughed 
tenderly. 

This  also  pleased  both  of  them, 
though  each  would  have  preferred  to  be 
her  only  wicked  boy — a  preference 
which,  perhaps,  had  something  to  do 
with  the  later  events  of  the  evening. 

"Aha!  I  know  you  both;  before 
twenty  minute'  you  will  be  makin'  love 
to  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke.  Behol' 
those  two  already!  An'  they  are  only 
ole  frien's." 

She  pointed  to  Pedlow  and  Sneyd. 
The  fat  man  was  shouting  at  a  woman 
in  pink  satin,  who  lounged,  half-reclin- 
ing, among  a  pile  of  cushions  upon  a 
divan  near  the  fire;  Sneyd  gallantly 
bending  over  her  to  kiss  her  hand. 

"It  is  a  very  little  dinner,  you  see," 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

continued  the  hostess,  "only  seven,  but 
we  shall  be  seven  time'  happier." 

The  seventh  person  proved  to  be  the 
Italian,  Corni,  who  had  surrendered  his 
seat  in  Madame  de  Vaurigard's  victoria 
to  Mellin  on  the  Pincio.  He  presently 
made  his  appearance  followed  by  a 
waiter  bearing  a  tray  of  glasses  filled 
with  a  pink  liquid,  while  the  Countess 
led  her  two  wicked  boys  across  the  room 
to  present  them  to  Lady  Mount-Rhys- 
wicke.  Already  Mellin  was  forming 
sentences  for  his  next  letter  to  the  Cran- 
ston Telegraph:  "Lady  Mount-Rhys- 
wicke  said  to  me  the  other  evening, 
while  discussing  the  foreign  policy  of 
Great  Britain,  in  Comtesse  de  Vauri- 
gard's salon  .  .  ."  "An  English  peeress 
of  pronounced  literary  acumen  has  been 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

giving  me  rather  confidentially  her 
opinion  of  our  American  poets  .  .  ." 

The  inspiration  of  these  promising 
fragments  was  a  large,  weary-looking 
person,  with  no  lack  of  powdered  shoul- 
der above  her  pink  bodice  and  a  profu- 
sion of  "undulated"  hair  of  so  decided 
a  blond  that  it  might  have  been  sus- 
pected that  the  decision  had  lain  with 
the  lady  herself. 

"How j do,"  she  said  languidly,  when 
Mellin's  name  was  pronounced  to  her. 
"There  's  a  man  behind  you  tryin'  to 
give  you  something  to  drink." 

"Who  was  it  said  these  were  Marti- 
nis?" snorted  Pedlow.  "They  've  got 
perfumery  in  'em." 

"Ah,  what  a  bad  lion  it  is !"  Madame 
de  Vaurigard  lifted  both  hands  in  mock 
1751 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

horror.  "Roar,  lion,  roar!"  she  cried. 
"An'  think  of  the  emotion  of  our  good 
Cavaliere  Corni,  who  have  come  an  hour 
early  jus'  to  make  them  for  us!  I  ask 
Monsieur  Mellin  if  it  is  not  good." 

"And  I  '11  leave  it  to  Cooley,"  said 
Pedlow.  "If  he  can  drink  all  of  his  I  '11 
eat  crow!" 

Thus  challenged,  the  two  young  men 
smilingly  accepted  glasses  from  the 
waiter,  and  lifted  them  on  high. 

"Same  toast,"  said  Cooley.  "Queen!" 

"A  la  belle  Marquise!" 

Gallantly  they  drained  the  glasses  at 
a  gulp,  and  Madame  de  Vaurigard 
clapped  her  hands. 

"Bravo!"  she  cried.  "You  see?  Corni 
and  I,  we  win." 

"Look  at  their  faces!"  said  Mr.  Ped- 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

low,  tactlessly  drawing  attention  to 
what  was,  for  the  moment,  an  undeni- 
ably painful  sight.  "Don't  tell  me  an 
Italian  knows  how  to  make  a  good  Mar- 
tini!" 

Mellin  profoundly  agreed,  but,  as  he 
joined  the  small  procession  to  the  Coun- 
tess5 dinner-table,  he  was  certain  that  an 
Italian  at  least  knew  how  to  make  a 
strong  one. 

The  light  in  the  dining-room  was 
provided  by  six  heavily-shaded  candles 
on  the  table;  the  latter  decorated  with 
delicate  lines  of  orchids.  The  chairs 
were  large  and  comfortable,  covered 
with  tapestry;  the  glass  was  old  Vene- 
tian, and  the  servants,  moving  like  use- 
ful ghosts  in  the  shadow  outside  the 
circle  of  mellow  light,  were  particularly 
C773 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

efficient  in  the  matter  of  keeping  the 
wine-glasses  full.  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard  had  put  Pedlow  on  her  right, 
Cooley  on  her  left,  with  Mellin  directly 
opposite  her,  next  to  Lady  Mount-Rhys- 
wicke.  Mellin  was  pleased,  because  he 
thought  he  would  have  the  Countess's 
face  toward  him.  Anything  would  have 
pleased  him  just  then. 

"This  is  the  kind  of  table  everybody 
ought  to  have,"  he  observed  to  the  party 
in  general,  as  he  finished  his  first  glass  of 
champagne.  "I  'm  going  to  have  it  like 
this  at  my  place  in  the  States — if  I  ever 
decide  to  go  back.  I  '11  have  six  separate 
candlesticks  like  this,  not  a  candela- 
brum, and  that  will  be  the  only  light  in 
the  room.  And  I  '11  never  have  any- 
thing but  orchids  on  my  table " 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE 


'Tor  my  part,"  Lady  Mount-Rhys- 
wicke  interrupted  in  the  loud,  tired 
monotone  which  seemed  to  be  her  only 
manner  of  speaking,  "I  like  more  light. 
I  like  all  the  light  that 's  goin'." 

"If  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  sat  at  my 
table,"  returned  Mellin  dashingly,  "I 
should  wish  all  the  light  in  the  world  to 
shine  upon  so  happy  an  event." 

"Hear  the  man!"  she  drawled.  "He's 
proposin'  to  me.  Thinks  I  'm  a  widow." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  laughter,  over 
which  rose  the  bellow  of  Mr.  Pedlow. 

"  'He  's  game!'  she  says — and  aint 
he?" 

Across  the  table  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard's  eyes  met  Mellin's  with  a  mocking 
intelligence  so  complete  that  he  caught 
her  message  without  need  of  the  words 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

she  noiselessly  formed  with  her  lips:  "I 
tol'  you  you  would  be  makin'  love  to 
her!" 

He  laughed  joyously  in  answer. 
Why  should  n't  he  flirt  with  Lady 
Mount-Rhyswicke  ?  He  was  thoroughly 
happy;  his  Helene,  his  belle  Marquise, 
sat  across  the  table  from  him  sending 
messages  to  him  with  her  eyes.  He 
adored  her,  but  he  liked  Lady  Mount- 
Rhyswicke — he  liked  everybody  and 
everything  in  the  world.  He  liked  Ped- 
low  particularly,  and  it  no  longer 
troubled  him  that  the  fat  man  should  be 
a  friend  of  Madame  de  Vaurigard. 
Pedlow  was  a  "character"  and  a  wit  as 
well.  Mellin  laughed  heartily  at  every- 
thing the  Honorable  Chandler  Pedlow 
said. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"This  is  life,"  remarked  the  young 
man  to  his  fair  neighbor. 

"What  is?  Sittin'  round  a  table, 
eatin'  and  drinkin'  ?" 

"Ah,  lovely  skeptic!"  She  looked  at 
him  strangely,  but  he  continued  with 
growing  enthusiasm:  "I  mean  to  sit  at 
such  a  table  as  this,  with  such  a  chef, 
with  such  wines — to  know  one  crowded 
hour  like  this  is  to  live !  Not  a  thing  is 
missing;  all  this  swagger  furniture,  the 
rich  atmosphere  of  smartness  about  the 
whole  place;  best  of  all,  the  company. 
It 's  a  great  thing  to  have  the  real  people 
around  you,  the  right  sort,  you  know,  so- 
cially; people  you  'd  ask  to  your  own 
table  at  home.  There  are  only  seven, 
but  every  one  distingue,  every  one " 

She  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  table 

CM 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

with  her  hands  palm  to  palm,  and,  rest- 
ing her  cheek  against  the  back  of  her  left 
hand,  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"And  you — are  you  distinguished, 
too?" 

"Oh,  I  would  n't  be  much  known  over 
here"  he  said  modestly. 

"Do  you  write  poetry?" 

"Oh,  not  professionally,  though  it  is 
published.  I  suppose" — he  sipped  his 
champagne  with  his  head  a  little  to  one 
side  as  though  judging  its  quality — "I 
suppose  I  've  been  more  or  less  a  dilet- 
tante. I  've  knocked  about  the  world  a 
good  bit." 

"Helene  says  you  're  one  of  these 
leisure  American  billionaires  like  Mr. 
Cooley  there,"  she  said  in  her  tired  voice. 

"Oh,    none    of   us    are    really   quite 

C823 


•HIS-O  WN-PEOPLE- 

billionaires."      He    laughed    deprecat- 
ingly. 

"No,  I  suppose  not — not  really.  Go 
on  and  tell  me  some  more  about  life  and 
this  distinguished  company." 

"Hey,  folks!"  Mr.  Pedlow's  roar 
broke  in  upon  this  dialogue.  "You  two 
are  gittin'  mighty  thick  over  there. 
We  're  drinking  a  toast,  and  you'll  have 
to  break  away  long  enough  to  join  in." 

"Queen!  That  's  what  she  is!" 
shouted  Cooley. 

Mellin  lifted  his  glass  with  the  others 
and  drank  to  Madame  de  Vaurigard, 
but  the  woman  at  his  side  did  not  change 
her  attitude  and  continued  to  sit  with 
her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  cheek  on  the 
back  of  her  hand,  watching  him  thought- 
fully. 

C833 


VI 

RAKE'S  •  PROGRESS 


MANY  toasts  were  uproariously 
honored,  the  health  of  each 
member  of  the  party  in  turn, 
then  the  country  of  each:    France  and 
England  first,  out  of  courtesy  to  the 
ladies,  Italy  next,  since  this  beautiful 
and   extraordinary  meeting   of   distin- 
guished people  (as  Mellin  remarked  in 
a  short  speech  he  felt  called  upon  to 
make)    took  place   in   that   wonderful 
land,  then  the  United  States.    This  last 
toast  the  gentlemen  felt  it  necessary  to 
honor    by    standing    in    their    chairs. 
[843 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

^r^«=T^^e^ss^i—'^i--*^T^i— igr-g^^i^^i'^^^r-'i^^-i^sai-.^^^-Ji-.fJfu-i.-'^.r^ 

[Song:  tfhe  Star-spangled  Banner — 
without  words — by  Mr.  Cooley  and 
chorus.] 

When  the  cigars  were  brought,  the 
ladies  graciously  remained,  adding  tiny 
spirals  of  smoke  from  their  cigarettes  to 
the  layers  of  blue  haze  which  soon  over- 
hung the  table.  Through  this  haze,  in 
the  gentle  light  (which  seemed  to  grow 
softer  and  softer)  Mellin  saw  the  face 
of  Helene  de  Vaurigard,  luminous  as  an 
angel's.  She  was  an  angel — and  the 
others  were  gods.  What  could  be  more 
appropriate  in  Rome?  Lady  Mount- 
Rhyswicke  was  Juno,  but  more  beauti- 
ful. For  himself,  he  felt  like  a  god  too, 
Olympic  in  serenity. 

He  longed  for  mysterious  dangers. 
How  debonair  he  would  stroll  among 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

them!  He  wished  to  explore  the  un- 
known; felt  the  need  of  a  splendid  ad- 
venture, and  had  a  happy  premonition 
that  one  was  coming  nearer  and  nearer. 
He  favored  himself  with  a  hopeful 
vision  of  the  apartment  on  fire,  Robert 
Russ  Mellin  smiling  negligently  among 
the  flames  and  Madame  de  Vaurigard 
kneeling  before  him  in  adoration.  Im- 
mersed in  delight,  he  puffed  his  cigar  and 
let  his  eyes  rest  dreamily  upon  the  face  of 
Helene.  He  was  quite  undisturbed  by 
an  argument,  more  a  commotion  than  a 
debate,  between  Mr.  Pedlow  and  young 
Cooley.  It  ended  by  their  rising,  the 
latter  overturning  a  chair  in  his  haste. 

"I  don't  know  the  rudiments,  don't 
IT  cried  the  boy.     "You  wait!     Ole 
Sneydie    and    I    '11    trim    you    down! 
[86] 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Corni  says  he  '11  play,  too.     Come  on, 
Mellin." 

"I  won't  go  unless  Helene  goes,"  said 
Mellin.  "What  are  you  going  to  do 
when  you  get  there?" 

"Alas,  my  frien'!"  exclaimed  Mad- 
ame de  Vaurigard,  rising,  "is  it  not  what 
I  tol'  you  ?  Always  you  are  never  content 
wizout  your  play.  You  come  to  dinner  an' 
when  it  is  finish'  you  play,  play,  play!" 

"Play?"  He  sprang  to  his  feet. 
"Bravo!  That  's  the  very  thing  I  've 
been  wanting  to  do.  I  knew  there  was 
something  I  wanted  to  do,  but  I  could  n't 
think  what  it  was." 

Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  followed  the 
others  into  the  salon,  but  Madame  de 
Vaurigard  waited  just  inside  the  door- 
way for  Mellin. 

C873 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"High  play!"  he  cried.  "We  must 
play  high !  I  won't  play  any  other  way. 
— I  want  to  play  high!" 

"Ah,  wicked  one!  What  did  I  tell 
you?" 

He  caught  her  hand.  "And  you  must 
play  too,  Helene." 

"No,  no,"  she  laughed  breathlessly. 

"Then  you  '11  watch.  Promise  you  '11 
watch  me.  I  won't  let  you  go  till  you 
promise  to  watch  me." 

"I  shall  adore  it,  my  f  rien' !" 

"Mellin,"  called  Cooley  from  the 
other  room.  "You  comin'  or  not?" 

"Can't  you  see  me?"  answered  Mel- 
lin hilariously,  entering  with  Madame 
de  Vaurigard,  who  was  rosy  with  laugh- 
ter. "Peculiar  thing  to  look  at  a  man 
and  not  see  him." 


•  HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Candles  were  lit  in  many  sconces  on 
the  walls,  and  the  card-table  had  been 
pushed  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  little 
towers  of  blue,  white  and  scarlet  count- 
ers arranged  upon  it  in  orderly  rows  like 
miniature  castles. 

"Now,  then,"  demanded  Cooley,  "are 
the  ladies  goin'  to  play?" 

"Never!"  cried  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard. 

"All  right,"  said  the  youth  cheer- 
fully; "you  can  look  on.  Come  and  sit 
by  me  for  a  mascot." 

"You  '11  need  a  mascot,  my  boy!" 
shouted  Pedlow.  "That  Js  right, 
though;  take  her." 

He  pushed  a  chair  close  to  that  in 
which  Cooley  had  already  seated  him- 
self, and  Madame  de  Vaurigard 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

dropped  into  it,  laughing.  "Mellin, 
you  set  there,"  he  continued,  pushing 
the  young  man  into  a  seat  opposite 
Cooley.  "We  '11  give  both  you  young 
fellers  a  mascot."  He  turned  to  Lady 
Mount-Rhyswicke,  who  had  gone  to 
the  settee  by  the  fire.  "Madge,  you 
come  and  set  by  Mellin,"  he  commanded 
jovially.  "Maybe  he  '11  forget  you  ain't 
a  widow  again." 

"I  don't  believe  I  care  much  about 
bein'  anybody's  mascot  to-night,"  she 
answered.  There  was  a  hint  of  anger  in 
her  tired  monotone. 

"What?"  He  turned  from  the  table 
and  walked  over  to  the  fireplace.  "I 
reckon  I  did  n't  understand  you,"  he 
said  quietly,  almost  gently.  "You  bet- 
ter come,  had  n't  you?" 

£903 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

She  met  his  inscrutable  little  eyes 
steadily.  A  faint  redness  slowly  revealed 
itself  on  her  powdered  cheeks;  then  she 
followed  him  back  to  the  table  and  took 
the  place  he  had  assigned  to  her  at  Mel- 
lin's  elbow. 

"I  '11  bank,"  said  Pedlow,  taking  a 
chair  between  Cooley  and  the  Italian, 
"unless  somebody  wants  to  take  it  off 
my  hands.  Now,  what  are  we  playing?" 

"Pokah,"  responded  Sneyd  with  mild 
sarcasm. 

"Bravo !"  cried  Mellin.  "That 's  my 
game.  Ber-raw/" 

This  was  so  far  true :  it  was  the  only 
game  upon  which  he  had  ever  ventured 
money;  he  had  played  several  times 
when  the  wagers  were  allowed  to  reach 
a  limit  of  twenty-five  cents. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  I  reckon," 
said  Pedlow.  "I  mean  what  we  are 
playin'  fer?" 

"Twenty-five  franc  limit,"  responded 
Cooley  authoritatively.  "Double  for 
jacks.  Play  two  hours  and  settle  when 
we  quit." 

Mellin  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "You 
call  that  high?"  he  asked,  with  a  sniff 
of  contempt.  "Why  not  double  it?" 

The  fat  man  hammered  the  table  with 
his  fist  delightedly.  "  'He  's  game,'  she 
says.  'He  's  the  gamest  little  Indian 
ever  come  down  the  big  road!'  she  says. 
Was  she  right?  What?  Maybe  she 
was  n't!  We  '11  double  it  before  very 
long,  my  boy;  this  '11  do  to  start  on. 
There."  He  distributed  some  of  the 
small  towers  of  ivory  counters  and  made 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

a  memorandum  in  a  notebook.  "There 's 
four  hundred  apiece." 

"That  all?5  inquired  Mellin,  where- 
upon Mr.  Pedlow  uproariously  repeated 
Madame  de  Vaurigard's  alleged  tribute. 

As  the  game  began,  the  intelligent- 
looking  maid  appeared  from  the  dining- 
room,  bearing  bottles  of  whisky  and 
soda,  and  these  she  deposited  upon 
small  tables  at  the  convenience  of  the 
players,  so  that  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
first  encounter  in  the  gentle  tournament 
there  was  material  for  a  toast  to  the  gal- 
lant who  had  won  it. 

"Here  's  to  the  gamest  Indian  of  us 
all,"  proposed  the  fat  man.  "Did  you 
notice  him  call  me  with  a  pair  of  tens? 
And  me  queen-high!" 

Mellin  drained  a  deep  glass  in  honor 


•H  IS-O  WN-PEOPLE- 

of  himself.  "On  my  soul,  Chan7  Ped- 
low,  I  think  you  're  the  bes'  fellow  in 
the  whole  world,"  he  said  gratefully. 
"Only  trouble  with  you — you  don't 
want  to  play  high  enough." 

He  won  again  and  again,  adding 
other  towers  of  counters  to  his  original 
allotment,  so  that  he  had  the  semblance 
of  a  tiny  castle.  When  the  cards  had 
been  dealt  for  the  fifth  time  he  felt  the 
light  contact  of  a  slipper  touching  his 
foot  under  the  table. 

That  slipper,  he  decided  (from  the 
nature  of  things)  could  belong  to  none 
other  than  his  Helene,  and  even  as  he 
came  to  this  conclusion  the  slight  pres- 
sure against  his  foot  was  gently  but  dis- 
tinctly increased  thrice.  He  pressed  the 
slipper  in  return  with  his  shoe,  at  the 
C943 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

same  time  giving  Madame  de  Vaurigard 
a  look  of  grateful  surprise  and  tender- 
ness, which  threw  her  into  a  confusion 
so  evidently  genuine  that  for  an  un- 
worthy moment  he  had  a  jealous  suspi- 
cion she  had  meant  the  little  caress  for 
some  other. 

It  was  a  disagreeable  thought,  and,  in 
the  hope  of  banishing  it,  he  refilled  his 
glass;  but  his  mood  had  begun  to 
change.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Helene 
was  watching  Cooley  a  great  deal  too 
devotedly.  Why  had  she  consented  to 
sit  by  Cooley,  when  she  had  promised  to 
watch  Robert  Russ  Mellin?  He  ob- 
served the  pair  stealthily. 

Cooley  consulted  her  in  laughing 
whispers  upon  every  discard,  upon 
every  bet.  Now  and  then,  in  their 
C953 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

whisperings,  Cooley's  hair  touched  hers; 
sometimes  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  the 
more  conveniently  to  look  at  his  cards. 
Mellin  began  to  be  enraged.  Did  she 
think  that  puling  milksop  had  as  much 
as  a  shadow  of  the  daring,  the  devilry, 
the  carelessness  of  consequences  which 
lay  within  Robert  Russ  Mellin?  "Con- 
sequences?" What  were  they?  There 
were  no  such  things!  She  would  not 
look  at  him — well,  he  would  make  her ! 
Thenceforward  he  raised  every  bet  by 
another  to  the  extent  of  the  limit  agreed 
upon. 

Mr.  Cooley  was  thoroughly  happy. 
He  did  not  resemble  Ulysses ;  he  would 
never  have  had  himself  bound  to  the 
mast;  and  there  were  already  sounds  of 
unearthly  sweetness  in  his  ears.  His 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

conferences  with  his  lovely  hostess 
easily  consoled  him  for  his  losses.  In 
addition,  he  was  triumphing  over  the 
boaster,  for  Mr.  Pedlow,  with  a  very  ill 
grace  and  swearing  (not  under  his 
breath) ,  was  losing  too.  The  Countess, 
reiterating  for  the  hundredth  time  that 
Cooley  was  a  "wicked  one,"  sweetly  con- 
stituted herself  his  cup-bearer;  kept  his 
glass  full  and  brought  him  fresh  cigars. 

Mellin  dealt  her  furious  glances,  and 
filled  his  own  glass,  for  Lady  Mount- 
Rhyswicke  plainly  had  no  conception  of 
herself  in  the  role  of  a  Hebe.  The  hos- 
pitable Pedlow,  observing  this  neglect, 
was  moved  to  chide  her. 

"Look  at  them  two  cooing  doves  over 
there,"  he  said  reproachfully,  a  jerk  of 
his  bulbous  thumb  indicating  Madame 
EM 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

de  Vaurigard  and  her  young  protege. 
"Madge,  can't  you  do  nothin'  fer  our 
friend  the  Indian?  Can't  you  even  help 
him  to  sody?" 

"Oh,  perhaps,"  she  answered  with  the 
slightest  flash  from  her  tired  eyes.  Then 
she  nonchalantly  lifted  Mellin's  replen- 
ished glass  from  the  table  and  drained 
it.  This  amused  Cooley. 

"I  like  that!"  he  chuckled.  "That  's 
one  way  of  helpin'  a  feller!  Helene, 
can  you  do  any  better  than  that?" 

"Ah,  this  dear,  droll  Cooley!" 

The  tantalizing  witch  lifted  the 
youth's  glass  to  his  lips  and  let  him 
drink,  as  a  mother  helps  a  thirsty  child. 
"Bebe!"  she  laughed  endearingly. 

As  the  lovely  Helene  pronounced 
that  word,  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  was 
£983 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

leaning  forward  to  replace  Mellin's 
empty  glass  upon  the  table. 

"I  don't  care  whether  you  're  a  widow 
or  not!"  he  shouted  furiously.  And  he 
resoundingly  kissed  her  massive  shoul- 
der. 

There  was  a  wild  shout  of  laughter; 
even  the  imperturbable  Sneyd  (who  had 
continued  to  win  steadily)  wiped  tears 
from  his  eyes,  and  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard  gave  way  to  intermittent  hysteria 
throughout  the  ensuing  half-hour. 

For  a  time  Mellin  sat  grimly  observ- 
ing this  inexplicable  merriment  with  a 
cold  smile. 

"Laugh  on!"  he  commanded  with  bit- 
ter satire,  some  ten  minutes  after  play 
had  been  resumed — and  was  instantly 
obeyed. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Whereupon  his  mood  underwent  an- 
other change,  and  he  became  convinced 
that  the  world  was  a  warm  and  kindly 
place,  where  it  was  good  to  live.  He 
forgot  that  he  was  jealous  of  Cooley  and 
angry  with  the  Countess ;  he  liked  every- 
body again,  especially  Lady  Mount- 
Rhyswicke.  "Won't  you  sit  farther  for- 
ward?" he  begged  her  earnestly;  "so 
that  I  can  see  your  beautiful  golden 
hair?" 

He  heard  but  dimly  the  spasmodic 
uproar  that  followed.  "Laugh  on!"  he 
repeated  with  a  swoop  of  his  arm.  "I 
don't  care !  Don't  you  care  either,  Mrs. 
Mount-Rhyswicke.  Please  sit  where  I 
can  see  your  beautiful  golden  hair. 
Don't  be  afraid  I  '11  kiss  you  again.  I 
would  n't  do  it  for  the  whole  world. 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

You  're  one  of  the  noblest  women  I  ever 
knew.  I  feel  that  's  true.  I  don't  know 
how  I  know  it,  but  I  know  it.  Let  'em 
laugh!" 

After  this  everything  grew  more  and 
more  hazy  to  him.  For  a  time  there  was, 
in  the  centre  of  the  haze,  a  nimbus  of 
light  which  revealed  his  cards  to  him 
and  the  towers  of  chips  which  he  con- 
stantly called  for  and  which  as  con- 
stantly disappeared — like  the  towers  of 
a  castle  in  Spain.  Then  the  haze  thick- 
ened, and  the  one  thing  clear  to  him  was 
a  phrase  from  an  old-time  novel  he  had 
read  long  ago  : 

"Debt  of  honor." 

The  three  words  appeared  to  be 
written  in  flames  against  a  background 
of  dense  fog.  A  debt  of  honor  was  a 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE 


promissory  note  which  had  to  be  paid 
on  Monday,  and  the  appeal  to  the  ob- 
durate grandfather — a  peer  of  England, 
the  Earl  of  Mount-Rhyswicke,  in  fact 
— was  made  at  midnight,  Sunday.  The 
fog  grew  still  denser,  lifted  for  a  mo- 
ment while  he  wrote  his  name  many 
times  on  slips  of  blue  paper;  closed 
down  once  more,  and  again  lifted — out- 
of-doors  this  time — to  show  him  a  luna- 
tic ballet  of  moons  dancing  streakily 
upon  the  horizon. 

He  heard  himself  say  quite  clearly, 
"All  right,  old  man,  thank  you;  but 
don't  bother  about  me,"  to  a  pallid  but 
humorous  Cooley  in  evening  clothes; 
the  fog  thickened;  oblivion  closed  upon 
him  for  a  seeming  second.  .  .  . 


VII    * 

THE  •  NEXT  •  MORNING 


SUDDENLY  he  sat  up  in  bed  in  his 
room  at  the  Magnifique,  gazing 
upon  a  disconsolate  Cooley  in 
gray  tweeds  who  sat  heaped  in  a  chair  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  with  his  head  in  his 
hands. 

Mellin's  first  sensation  was  of  utter 
mystification;  his  second  was  more  cor- 
poreal: the  consciousness  of  physical 
misery,  of  consuming  fever,  of  aches 
that  ran  over  his  whole  body,  converging 
to  a  dreadful  climax  in  his  head,  of  a 
throat  so  immoderately  parched  it 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

seemed  to  crackle,  and  of  a  thirst  so  avid 
it  was  a  passion.  His  eye  fell  upon  a 
carafe  of  water  on  a  chair  at  his  bedside ; 
he  seized  upon  it  with  a  shaking  hand 
and  drank  half  its  contents  before  he  set 
it  down.  The  action  attracted  his  com- 
panion's attention  and  he  looked  up, 
showing  a  pale  and  haggard  coun- 
tenance. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  inquired  Cooley 
with  a  wan  smile. 

Mellin's  head  dropped  back  upon  the 
pillow  and  he  made  one  or  two  painful 
efforts  to  speak  before  he  succeeded  in 
finding  a  ghastly  semblance  of  his  voice. 

"I  thought  I  was  at  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard's." 

"You  were,"  said  the  other,  adding 
grimly:  "We  both  were." 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"But  that  was  only  a  minute  ago." 

"It  was  six  hours  ago.  It  's  goin'  on 
ten  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"I  don't  understand  how  that  can  be. 
How  did  I  get  here?" 

"I  brought  you.    I  was  pretty  bad,  but 

you I  never  saw  anything  like  you ! 

From  the  time  you  kissed  Lady  Mount- 
Rhys  wicke " 

Mellin  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed,  staring 
wildly.  He  began  to  tremble  violently. 

' 'Don't  you  remember  that?"  asked 
Cooley. 

Suddenly  he  did.  The  memory  of  it 
came  with  inexorable  clarity;  he  crossed 
forearms  over  his  horror-stricken  face 
and  fell  back  upon  the  pillow. 

"Oh,"  he  gasped.  "Un-speakable ! 
Un-speakable!" 

D053 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"Lord!  Don't  worry  about  that!  I 
don't  think  she  minded." 

"It 's  the  thought  of  Madame  de  Vau- 
rigard — it  kills  me !  The  horror  of  it — 
that  I  should  do  such  a  thing  in  her 
house !  She  '11  never  speak  to  me  again, 
she  ought  n't  to;  she  ought  to  send  her 
groom  to  beat  me!  You  can't  think 
what  I  've  lost " 

"Can't  I  ?"  Mr.  Cooley  rose  from  his 
chair  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  chamber.  "I  can  guess  to  within  a 
thousand  francs  of  what  /  've  lost!  I 
had  to  get  the  hotel  to  cash  a  check  on 
New  York  for  me  this  morning.  I  've  a 
habit  of  carrying  all  my  money  in  bills, 
and  a  fool  trick,  too.  Well,  I  'm  cured 
of  it!" 

"Oh,  if  it  were  only  a  little  money 


•H  I  S-OWN-  PEOPLE- 

and  nothing  else  that  I  'd  lost!  The 
money  means  nothing."  Mellin  choked. 

"I  suppose  you  're  pretty  well  fixed. 
Well,  so  am  I,"  Cooley  shook  his  head, 
"but  money  certainly  means  something 
tome!" 

"It  would  n't  if  you  'd  thrown  away 
the  most  precious  friendship  of  your 
life." 

"See  here,"  said  Cooley,  halting  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  and  looking  at  his 
stricken  companion  from  beneath  frown- 
ing brows,  "I  guess  I  can  see  how  it  is 
with  you,  and  I  '11  tell  you  frankly  it 's 
been  the  same  with  me.  I  never  met  such 
a  fascinatin'  woman  in  my  life:  she 
throws  a  reg'ler  ole-fashioned  spell  over 
you!  Now  I  hate  to  say  it,  but  I  can't 
help  it,  because  it  plain  hits  me  in  .the 
DO?  3 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 


face  every  time  I  think  of  it;  the  truth  is 
— well,  sir,  I  'm  afraid  you  and  me  have 
had  little  red  soldier-coats  and  caps  put 
on  us  and  strings  tied  to  our  belts  while 
we  turned  somersets  for  the  children." 

"I  don't  understand.  I  don't  know 
what  you  're  talking  about." 

"No?  It  seems  to  get  more  and  more 
simple  to  me.  I  've  been  thinking  it  all 
over  and  over  again.  I  can't  help  it! 
See  here:  I  met  Sneyd  on  the  steamer, 
without  any  introduction.  He  sort  of 
warmed  into  the  game  in  the  smoking- 
room,  and  he  won  straight  along  the 
trip.  He  called  on  me  in  London  and 
took  me  to  meet  the  Countess  at  her 
hotel.  We  three  went  to  the  theatre 
and  lunch  and  so  forth  a  few  times ;  and 
when  I  left  for  Paris  she  turned  up  on 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

the  way:  that  's  when  you  met  her. 
Couple  of  days  later,  Sneyd  came  over, 
and  he  and  the  Countess  introduced  me 
to  dear  ole  friend  Pedlow.  So  you  see,  I 
don't  rightly  even  know  who  any  of  'em 
really  are:  just  took  'em  for  granted,  as 
it  were.  We  had  lots  of  fun,  I  admit 
that,  honkin'  about  in  my  car.  We  only 
played  cards  once,  and  that  was  in  her 
apartment  the  last  night  before  I  left 
Paris,  but  that  one  time  Pedlow  won  fif- 
teen thousand  francs  from  me.  When  I 
told  them  my  plans,  how  I  was  goin'  to 
motor  down  to  Rome,  she  said  she  would 
be  in  Rome — and,  I  tell  you,  I  was 
happy  as  a  poodle-pup  about  it.  Sneyd 
said  he  might  be  in  Rome  along  about 
then,  and  open-hearted  ole  Pedlow  said 
not  to  be  surprised  if  he  turned  up,  too. 
C 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Well,  he  did,  almost  to  the  minute,  and 
in  the  meantime  she  'd  got  you  hooked 
on,  fine  and  tight." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  Mellin 
lifted  himself  painfully  on  an  elbow. 
"I  don't  know  what  you  're  getting  at, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  're  speaking 
disrespectfully  of  an  angel  that  I  've  in- 
sulted, and  I " 

"Now  see  here,  Mellin,  I  '11  tell  you 
something."  The  boy's  white  face 
showed  sudden  color  and  there  was  a 
catch  in  his  voice.  "I  was — I  've  been 
mighty  near  in  love  with  that  woman! 
But  I  've  had  a  kind  of  a  shock;  I  've  got 
my  common-sense  back,  and  I  'm  not, 
any  more.  I  don't  know  exactly  how 
much  money  I  had,  but  it  was  between 
thirty-five  and  thirty-eight  thousand 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

francs,  and  Sneyd  won  it  all  after  we 
took  off  the  limit — over  seven  thousand 
dollars — at  her  table  last  night.  Putting 
two  and  two  together,  honestly  it  looks 
bad.  It  looks  mighty  bad !  Now,  I  'm 
pretty  well  fixed,  and  yesterday  I  did  n't 
care  whether  school  kept  or  not,  but 
seven  thousand  dollars  is  real  money  to 
anybody!  My  old  man  worked  pretty 
hard  for  his  first  seven  thousand,  I  guess, 
and" — he  gulped — "he  'd  think  a  lot  of 
me  for  lettin'  go  of  it  the  way  I  did  last 
night,  would  n't  he?  You  never  see 
things  like  this  till  the  next  morning! 
And  you  remember  that  other  woman  sat 
where  she  could  see  every  hand  you 

drew,  and  the  Countess " 

"Stop!"    Mellin  flung  one  arm  up 
violently,  striking  the  headboard  with 

E-i.M-3 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

his  knuckles.  "I  won't  hear  a  syllable 
against  Madame  de  Vaurigard!" 

Young  Cooley  regarded  him  steadily 
for  a  moment.  "Have  you  remembered 
yet,"  he  said  slowly,  "how  much  you  lost 
last  night?" 

"I  only  remember  that  I  behaved  like 
an  unspeakable  boor  in  the  presence  of 
the  divinest  creature  that  ever " 

Cooley  disregarded  the  outburst,  and 
said : 

"When  we  settled,  you  had  a  pad  of 
express  company  checks  worth  six  hun- 
dred dollars.  You  signed  all  of  'em  and 
turned  'em  over  to  Sneyd  with  three 
one-hundred-lire  bills,  which  was  all  the 
cash  you  had  with  you.  Then  you  gave 
him  your  note  for  twelve  thousand 
francs  to  be  paid  within  three  days.  You 


HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE 


made  a  great  deal  of  fuss  about  its  being 
a  'debt  of  honor.' :  He  paused.  "You 
had  n't  remembered  that,  had  you?" 

Mellin  had  closed  his  eyes.  He  lay 
quite  still  and  made  no  answer. 

"No,  I  '11  bet  you  had  n't,"  said 
Cooley,  correctly  deducing  the  fact. 
"You  're  well  off,  or  you  would  n't  be  at 
this  hotel,  and,  for  all  I  know,  you  may 
be  fixed  so  you  won't  mind  your  loss  as 
much  as  I  do  mine ;  but  it  ought  to  make 
you  kind  of  charitable  toward  my  sus- 
picions of  Madame  de  Vaurigard's 
friends." 

The  six  hundred  dollars  in  express  com- 
pany checks  and  the  three  hundred-lire 
bills  were  all  the  money  the  unhappy 
Mellin  had  in  the  world,  and  until  he 
could  return  to  Cranston  and  go  back  to 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

work  in  the  real-estate  office  again,  he 
had  no  prospect  of  any  more.  He  had 
not  even  his  steamer  ticket.  In  the  shock 
of  horror  and  despair  he  whispered 
brokenly : 

"I  don't  care  if  they  're  the  worst  peo- 
ple in  the  world,  they  're  better  than  I 
am!" 

The  other's  gloom  cleared  a  little  at 
this.  "Well,  you  have  got  it!"  he  ex- 
claimed briskly.  "You  don't  know  how 
different  you  '11  feel  after  a  long  walk  in 
the  open  air."  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
"I  've  got  to  go  and  see  what  that  news- 
paper-man, Cornish,  wants;  it  's  ten 
o'clock.  I  '11  be  back  after  a  while;  I 
want  to  reason  this  out  with  you.  I  don't 
deny  but  it 's  possible  I  'm  wrong;  any- 
way, you  think  it  over  while  I  'm  gone. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

You  take  a  good  hard  think,  will  you?" 
As  he  closed  the  door,  Mellin  slowly 
drew  the  coverlet  over  his  head.  It  was 
as  if  he  covered  the  face  of  some  one  who 
had  just  died. 


VIII 

WHAT  •  CORNISH  •  KNEW 


Two  hours  passed  before  young 
Cooley  returned.  He  knocked 
twice  without  a  reply;  then 
he  came  in. 

The  coverlet  was  still  over  Mellin's 
head. 

"Asleep?5  asked  Cooley. 
"No." 

The  coverlet  was  removed  by  a  shak- 
ing hand. 

"Murder!"  exclaimed  Cooley  sym- 
pathetically, at  sight  of  the  other's  face. 
"A  night  off  certainly  does  things  to 
you !  Better  let  me  get  you  some " 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"No.  I  '11  be  all  right— after  while." 
"Then  I  '11  go  right  ahead  with  our 
little  troubles.  I  've  decided  to  leave 
for  Paris  by  the  one- thirty  and  have  n't 
got  a  whole  lot  of  time.  Cornish  is  here 
with  me  in  the  hall :  he  's  got  something 
to  say  that 's  important  for  you  to  hear, 
and  I  'm  goin'  to  bring  him  right 
in."  He  waved  his  hand  toward 
the  door,  which  he  had  left  open. 
"Come  along,  Cornish.  Poor  ole 
Mellin  '11  play  Du  Barry  with  us  and 
give  us  a  morning  leevy  while  he 
listens  in  a  bed  with  a  palanquin  to  it. 
Now  let  's  draw  up  chairs  and  be 
sociable." 

The  journalist  came  in,  smoking  a 
long  cigar,  and  took  the  chair  the  youth 
pushed  toward  him;  but,  after  a  twin- 
kling glance  through  his  big  spectacles 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

at  the  face  on  the  pillow,  he  rose  and 
threw  the  cigar  out  of  the  window. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Cooley.  "I  want 
you  to  tell  him  just  what  you  told  me, 
and  when  you  're  through  I  want  to  see 
if  he  does  n't  think  I  'm  Sherlock 
Holmes'  little  brother." 

"If  Mr.  Mellin  does  not  feel  too  ill," 
said  Cornish  dryly;  "I  know  how  pain- 
ful such  cases  sometimes " 

"No."  Mellin  moistened  his  parched 
lips  and  made  a  pitiful  effort  to  smile. 
"I  '11  be  all  right  very  soon." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  began  the  journal- 
ist, "that  I  was  n't  able  to  get  a  few 
words  with  Mr.  Cooley  yesterday  eve- 
ning. Perhaps  you  noticed  that  I  tried 
as  hard  as  I  could,  without  using  actual 
force" — he  laughed — "to  detain  him." 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE. 

"You  did  your  best,"  agreed  Cooley 
ruefully,  "and  I  did  my  worst.  Nobody 
ever  listens  till  the  next  day!" 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  no  vital  damage  was 
done,  anyway,"  said  Cornish.  "It  would 
have  been  pretty  hard  lines  if  you  two 
young  fellows  had  been  poor  men,  but 
as  it  is  you  're  probably  none  the  worse 
for  a  lesson  like  this." 

"You  seem  to  think  seven  thousand 
dollars  is  a  joke,"  remarked  Cooley. 

Cornish  laughed  again.  "You  see,  it 
flatters  me  to  think  my  time  was  so  valu- 
able that  a  ten  minutes'  talk  with  me 
would  have  saved  so  much  money." 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Cooley.  "Ten  to 
one  we  'd  neither  of  us  have  believed 
you — last  night!" 

"I  doubt  it,  too."    Cornish  turned  to 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Mellin.  "I  hear  that  you,  Mr.  Mellin, 
are  still  of  the  opinion  that  you  were 
dealing  with  straight  people?" 

Mellin  managed  to  whisper  "Yes." 
"Then,"  said  Cornish,  "I  'd  better  tell 
you  just  what  I  know  about  it,  and  you 
can  form  your  own  opinion  as  to  whether 
I  do  know  or  not.  I  have  been  in  the 
newspaper  business  on  this  side  for  fif- 
teen years,  and  my  headquarters  are  in 
Paris,  where  these  people  are  very  well 
known.  The  man  who  calls  himself 
'Chandler  Pedlow'  was  a  faro-dealer  for 
Tom  Stout  in  Chicago  when  Stout's 
place  was  broken  up,  a  good  many  years 
ago.  There  was  a  real  Chandler  Pedlow 
in  Congress  from  a  California  district  in 
the  early  nineties,  but  he  is  dead.  This 
man's  name  is  Ben  Welch:  he  's  a  pro- 


»HIS-OWN-PEOPLE* 

fessional  swindler;  and  the  Englishman, 
Sneyd,  is  another;  a  qiiiet  man,  not  so 
well  known  as  Welch,  and  not  nearly  so 
clever,  but  a  good  'feeder'  for  him.  The 
very  attractive  Frenchwoman  who  calls 
herself  'Comtesse  de  Vaurigard'  is  gen- 
erally believed  to  be  Sneyd's  wife, 
though  I  could  not  take  the  stand  on 
that  myself.  Welch  is  the  brains  of  the 
organization :  you  might  n't  think  it,  but 
he  's  a  very  brilliant  man — he  might 
have  made  a  great  reputation  in  busi- 
ness if  he  'd  been  straight — and,  with 
this  woman's  help,  he  's  carried  out  some 
really  astonishing  schemes.  His  man- 
ner is  clumsy;  he  knows  that,  bless  you, 
but  it 's  the  only  manner  he  can  manage, 
and  she  is  so  adroit  she  can  sugar-coat 
even  such  a  pill  as  that  and  coax  people 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

to  swallow  it.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  the  Italian  who  is  working  with 
them  down  here.  But  a  gang  of  the 
Welch- Vaurigard-Sneyd  type  has  ten- 
tacles all  over  the  Continent;  such  peo- 
ple are  in  touch  with  sharpers  every- 
where, you  see." 

"Yes,"  Cooley  interpolated,  "and 
with  woolly  little  lambkins,  too." 

"Well,"  chuckled  Cornish,  "that  's 
the  way  they  make  their  living,  you 
know." 

"Go  on  and  tell  him  the  rest  of  it," 
urged  Cooley. 

"About  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke," 
said  Cornish,  "it  seems  strange  enough, 
but  she  has  a  perfect  right  to  her  name. 
She  is  a  good  deal  older  than  she  looks, 
and  I  've  heard  she  used  to  be  remark- 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

ably  beautiful.  Her  third  husband  was 
Lord  George  Mount-Rhyswicke,  a  man 
who  'd  been  dropped  from  his  clubs,  and 
he  deserted  her  in  1903,  but  she  has  not 
divorced  him.  It  is  said  that  he  is  some- 
where in  South  America;  however,  as  to 
that  I  do  not  know." 

Mr.  Cornish  put  the  very  slightest 
possible  emphasis  on  the  word  "know," 
and  proceeded : 

"I  Jve  heard  that  she  is  sincerely  at- 
tached to  him  and  sends  him  money 
from  time  to  time,  when  she  has  it — 
though  that,  too,  is  third-hand  informa- 
tion. She  has  been  declasse  ever  since 
her  first  divorce.  That  was  a  'celebrated 
case/  and  she  's  dropped  down  pretty 
far  in  the  world,  though  I  judge  she  's  a 
good  deal  the  best  of  this  crowd.  Ex- 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

actly  what  her  relations  to  the  others  are 
I  don't  know,  but  I  imagine  that  she  's 
pretty  thick  with  'em." 

"Just  a  little!"  exclaimed  Cooley. 
"She  sits  behind  one  of  the  lambkins  and 
Helene  behind  the  other  while  they  get 
their  woolly  wool  clipped.  I  suppose 
the  two  of  'em  signaled  what  was  in 
every  hand  we  held,  though  I  'm  sure 
they  need  n't  have  gone  to  the  trouble ! 
Fact  is,  I  don't  see  why  they  bothered 
about  goin'  through  the  form  of  playin' 
cards  with  us  at  all.  They  could  have 
taken  it  away  without  that!  Whee!" 
Mr.  Cooley  whistled  loud  and  long. 
"And  there  's  loads  of  wise  young  men 
on  the  ocean  now,  hurryin'  over  to  take 
our  places  in  the  pens.  Well,  they  can 
have  mine!  Funny,  Mellin:  nobody 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

would  come  up  to  you  or  me  in  the 
Grand  Central  in  New  York  and  try  to 
sell  us  greenbacks  just  as  good  as  real. 
But  we  come  over  to  Europe  with  our 
pockets  full  o'  money  and  start  in  to  see 
the  Big  City  with  Jesse  James  in  a  false 
mustache  on  one  arm,  and  Lucresha 
Borgy,  under  an  assumed  name,  on  the 
other!" 

"I  am  afraid  I  agree  with  you/'  said 
Cornish;  "though  I  must  say  that,  from 
all  I  hear,  Madame  de  Vaurigard  might 
put  an  atmosphere  about  a  thing  which 
would  deceive  almost  any  one  who 
was  n't  on  his  guard.  When  a  Pari- 
sienne  of  her  sort  is  clever  at  all  she  's 
irresistible." 

"I  believe  you,"  Cooley  sighed 
deeply. 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"Yesterday  evening,  Mr.  Mellin," 
continued  the  journalist,  "when  I  saw 
the  son  of  my  old  friend  in  company 
with  Welch  and  Sneyd,  of  course  I  tried 
to  warn  him.  I  've  often  seen  them  in 
'Paris,  though  I  believe  they  have  no 
knowledge  of  me.  As  I  've  said,  they 
are  notorious,  especially  Welch,  yet  they 
have  managed,  so  far,  to  avoid  any  diffi- 
culty with  the  Paris  police,  and,  I  'm 
sorry  to  say,  it  might  be  hard  to  actually 
prove  anything  against  them.  You 
could  n't  prove  that  anything  was 
crooked  last  night,  for  instance.  For 
that  matter,  I  don't  suppose  you  want 
to.  Mr.  Cooley  wishes  to  accept  his  loss 
and  bear  it,  and  I  take  it  that  that  will  be 
your  attitude,  too.  In  regard  to  the  note 
you  gave  Sneyd,  I  hope  you  will  refuse 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE 


to  pay;  I  don't  think  that  they  would 
dare  press  the  matter. ' 

"Neither  do  I,"  Mr.  Cooley  agreed. 
"I  left  a  silver  cigarette-case  at  the 
apartment  last  night,  and  after  talkin' 
to  Cornish  a  while  ago,  I  sent  my  man 
for  it  with  a  note  to  her  that  '11  make  'em 
all  sit  up  and  take  some  notice.  The 
gang  's  all  there  together,  you  can  be 
sure.  I  asked  for  Sneyd  and  Pedlow  in 
the  office  and  found  they  'd  gone  out 
early  this  morning  leavin'  word  they 
would  n't  be  back  till  midnight. 
And,  see  here;  I  know  I  'm  easy,  but 
somehow  I  believe  you  're  even  a 
softer  piece  o'  meat  than  I  am.  I 
want  you  to  promise  me  that  what- 
ever happens  you  won't  pay  that 
I  O  U." 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

Mellin  moistened  his  lips  in  vain.  He 
could  not  answer. 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me  not  to  pay 
it,"  repeated  Cooley  earnestly. 

"I  promise/'  gasped  Mellin. 

"You  won't  pay  it  no  matter  what 
they  do?" 

"No." 

This  seemed  to  reassure  Mr.  Cooley. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  've  got  to  hustle 
to  get  my  car  shipped  and  make  the 
train.  Cornish  has  finished  his  job  down 
here  and  he  's  goin'  with  me.  I  want  to 
get  out.  The  whole  thing  's  left  a 
mighty  bad  taste  in  my  mouth,  and  I  'd 
go  crazy  if  I  did  n't  get  away  from  it. 
Why  don't  you  jump  into  your  clothes 
and  come  along,  too?" 

"I  can't." 

£1283 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man  with  a 
sympathetic  shake  of  the  head,  "you 
certainly  look  sick.  It  may  be  better  if 
you  stay  in  bed  till  evening:  a  train  's  a 
mighty  mean  place  for  the  day  after. 
But  I  would  n't  hang  around  here  too 
long.  If  you  want  money,  all  you  have 
to  do  is  to  ask  the  hotel  to  cash  a  check 
on  your  home  bank;  they  're  always  glad 
to  do  that  for  Americans."  He  turned 
to  the  door.  "Mr.  Cornish,  if  you  're 
goin'  to  help  me  about  shippin'  the  car, 
I  'm  ready." 

"So  am  I.    Good-by,  Mr.  Mellin." 

"Good-by,"  Mellin  said  feebly— 
"and  thank  you." 

Young  Cooley  came  back  to  the  bed- 
side and  shook  the  other's  feverish  hand. 
"Good-by,  ole  man.  I  'm  awful  sorry 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

it 's  all  happened,  but  I  'm  glad  it  did  n't 
cost  you  quite  as  much  money  as  it  did 
me.  Otherwise  I  expect  it 's  hit  us  about 
equally  hard.  I  wish — I  wish  I  could 
find  a  nice  one" — the  youth  gulped  over 
something  not  unlike  a  sob — "as  fasci- 
natin'  as  her!" 

Most  people  have  had  dreams  of  ap- 
proaching dangers  in  the  path  of  which 
their  bodies  remained  inert;  when,  in 
spite  of  the  frantic  wish  to  fly,  it  was  im- 
possible to  move,  while  all  the  time  the 
horror  crept  closer  and  closer.  This  was 
Mellin's  state  as  he  saw  the  young  man 
going.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
ask  Cooley  for  help,  to  beg  him  for  a 
loan.  But  he  could  not. 

He  saw  Cooley' s  hand  on  the  door- 
knob; saw  the  door  swing  open. 


-H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"Good-by,  again/'  Cooley  said;  "and 
good  luck  to  you!" 

Mellin's  will  strove  desperately  with 
the  shame  that  held  him  silent. 

The  door  was  closing. 

"Oh,  Cooley,"  called  Mellin  hoarsely. 

"Yes.    What?" 

"J-j-just  good-by,"  said  Mellin. 

And  with  that  young  Cooley  was 
gone. 


A  MULTITUDINOUS       clangOF       of 
bells  and  a  dozen  neighboring 
chimes  rang  noon;   then   the 
rectangular  oblongs  of  hot  sunlight  that 
fell  from  the  windows  upon  the  carpet 
of  Mellin's  room  began  imperceptibly 
to  shift  their  angles  and  move  eastward. 
From  the  stone  pavement  of  the  street 
below  came  the  sound  of  horses  pawing 
and  the  voices  of  waiting  cabmen;  then 
bells  again,  and  more  bells;  clamoring 
the  slow  and  cruel  afternoon  into  the 
past.     But  all  was  silent  in  Mellin's 
D32] 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

room,  save  when,  from  time  to  time,  a 
long,  shuddering  sigh  came  from  the 
bed. 

The  unhappy  young  man  had  again 
drawn  the  coverlet  over  his  head,  but 
not  to  sleep :  it  was  more  like  a  forlorn 
and  desperate  effort  to  hide,  as  if  he 
crept  into  a  hole,  seeking  darkness  to 
cover  the  shame  and  fear  that  racked 
his  soul.  For  though  his  shame  had  been 
too  great  to  let  him  confess  to  young 
Cooley  and  ask  for  help,  his  fear  was  as 
great  as  his  shame;  and  it  increased  as 
the  hours  passed.  In  truth  his  case  was 
desperate.  Except  the  people  who  had 
stripped  him,  Cooley  was  the  only  per- 
son in  all  of  Europe  with  whom  he  had 
more  than  a  very  casual  acquaintance. 
At  home,  in  Cranston,  he  had  no  friends 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

susceptible  to  such  an  appeal  as  it  was 
vitally  necessary  for  him  to  make.  His 
relatives  were  not  numerous :  there  were 
two  aunts,  the  widows  of  his  father's 
brothers,  and  a  number  of  old-maid 
cousins ;  and  he  had  an  uncle  in  Iowa,  a 
country  minister  whom  he  had  not  seen 
for  years.  But  he  could  not  cable  to  any 
of  these  for  money;  nor  could  he  quite 
conjure  his  imagination  into  picturing 
any  of  them  sending  it  if  he  did.  And 
even  to  cable  he  would  have  to  pawn  his 
watch,  which  was  an  old-fashioned  one 
of  silver  and  might  not  bring  enough  to 
pay  the  charges. 

He  began  to  be  haunted  by  fragment- 
ary, prophetic  visions — confused  but 
realistic  in  detail,  and  horridly  probable 
— of  his  ejectment  from  the  hotel,  per- 

C.I343 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

»-.l-"-.l— "-»g^SM=gg^r^.'^ll-"— l^j^'^^g^'— lF-».^?g=^^^J^^^Jlgg-t^^>^t-^r-it^^J^;^i^^ 

haps  arrest  and  trial.  He  wondered 
what  they  did  in  Italy  to  people 
who  "beat"  hotels;  and,  remember- 
ing what  some  one  had  told  him  of 
the  dreadf  ulness  of  Italian  jails, 
convulsive  shudderings  seized  upon 
him. 

The  ruddy  oblongs  of  sunlight 
crawled  nearer  to  the  east  wall  of  the 
room,  stretching  themselves  thinner  and 
thinner,  until  finally  they  were  not  there 
at  all,  and  the  room  was  left  in  deepen- 
ing grayness.  Carriages,  one  after  the 
other,  in  unintermittent  succession,  rum- 
bled up  to  the  hotel-entrance  beneath 
the  window,  bringing  goldfish  for  the 
aquarium  from  the  music  pond  on  the 
Pincio  and  the  fountains  of  Villa  Bor- 
ghese.  Wild  strains  from  the  Hunga- 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

rian  orchestra,  rhapsodical  twankings  of 
violins,  and  the  runaway  arpeggios  of  a 
zither  crazed  with  speed-mania,  skipped 
along  the  corridors  and  lightly  through 

Mellin's  door.  In  his  mind's  eye  he 
saw  the  gay  crowd  in  the  watery 
light,  the  little  tables  where  only 
five  days  ago  he  had  sat  with  the 
loveliest  of  all  the  anemone-like  la- 
dies. .  .  . 

The  beautifully-dressed  tea-drinkers 
were  there  now,  under  the  green  glass 
dome,  prattling  and  smiling,  those  peo- 
ple he  had  called  his  own.  And  as  the 
music  sounded  louder,  faster,  wilder 
and  wilder  with  the  gipsy  madness — 
then  in  that  darkening  bedchamber  his 
soul  became  articulate  in  a  cry  of  hu- 
miliation : 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

aSH5ZSSi==iEd.S^5^^i^^i=rLSSbji=i^i^!J??^^cihji^^iriiSr7J^c=i 

"God  in  His  mercy  forgive  me,  how 
raw  I  was!" 

A  VISION  came  before  his  closed  eyes; 
the  maple-bordered  street  in  Cranston, 
the  long,  straight,  wide  street  where 
Mary  Kramer  lived;  a  summer  twilight; 
Mary  in  her  white  muslin  dress  on  the 
veranda  steps,  and  a  wistaria  vine  climb- 
ing the  post  beside  her,  half-embowering 
her.  How  cool  and  sweet  and  good  she 
looked!  How  dear — and  how  kind! — 
she  had  always  been  to  him. 

DUSK  stole  through  the  windows:  the 
music  ceased  and  the  tea-hour  was  over. 
The  carriages  were  departing,  bearing 
the  gay  people  who  went  away  laugh- 
ing, calling  last  words  to  one  another, 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

and,  naturally,  quite  unaware  that  a 
young  man,  who,  five  days  before,  had 
adopted  them  and  called  them  "his 
own,"  was  lying  in  a  darkened  room 
above  them,  and  crying  like  a  child  upon 
his  pillow. 


THE  •  CAB  •  AT  •  THE 
•  CORNER • 


A  ten  o'clock,  a  page  bearing  a 
card     upon     a     silver     tray 
knocked  upon  the  door,  and 
stared  with  wide-eyed  astonishment  at 
the  disordered  gentleman  who  opened 
it. 

The  card  was  Lady  Mount-Rhys- 
wicke's.  Underneath  the  name  was 
written : 

If  you  are  there  will  you  give  me  a  few 
minutes  ?  I  am  waiting  in  a  cab  at  the  next 
corner  by  the  fountain. 

Mellin's  hand  shook  as  he  read.    He 


H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE 


did  not  doubt  that  she  came  as  an  emis- 
sary; probably  they  meant  to  hound  him 
for  payment  of  the  note  he  had  given 
Sneyd,  and  at  that  thought  he  could 
have  shrieked  with  hysterical  laughter. 

"Do  you  speak  English?"  he  asked. 

"Spik  little.    Yes." 

"Who  gave  you  this  card?" 

"Coachman,"  said  the  boy.  "He  wait 
risposta." 

"Tell  him  to  say  that  I  shall  be  there 
in  five  minutes." 

"Fi' minute.    Yes.    Good-by." 

Mellin  was  partly  dressed — he  had 
risen  half  an  hour  earlier  and  had  been 
distractedly  pacing  the  floor  when  the 
page  knocked — and  he  completed  his 
toilet  quickly.  He  passed  down  the  cor- 
ridors, descended  by  the  stairway  (feel- 


H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE 


ing  that  to  use  the  elevator  would  be 
another  abuse  of  the  confidence  of  the 
hotel  company)  and  slunk  across  the 
lobby  with  the  look  and  the  sensations 
of  a  tramp  who  knows  that  he  will  be 
kicked  into  the  street  if  anybody  catches 
sight  of  him. 

A  closed  cab  stood  near  the  fountain 
at  the  next  corner.  There  was  a  trunk 
on  the  box  by  the  driver,  and  the  roof 
was  piled  with  bags  and  rugs.  He  ap- 
proached uncertainly. 

"Is — is  this — is  it  Lady  Mount-Rhys- 
wicke?"  he  stammered  pitifully. 

She  opened  the  door. 

"Yes.  Will  you  get  in?  We '11  just 
drive  round  the  block  if  you  don't  mind. 
I  '11  bring  you  back  here  in  ten  minutes." 
And  when  he  had  tremulously  complied, 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

^  — ' L-  •— '  ^^i^Sf  T?  *^^=> i—,,— il— .,— l=T^3^^Ji_,— ll=?7=^^u^Fjt=r^L^,L-ii_,,_ii_.,_i  c=T7=i  L^^-J 

"Avanti,  cocchiere"  she  called  to  the 
driver,  and  the  tired  little  cab-horse  be- 
gan to  draw  them  slowly  along  the  de- 
serted street. 

Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  maintained 
silence  for  a  time,  while  her  companion 
waited,  his  heart  pounding  with  dread- 
ful apprehensions.  Finally  she  gave  a 
short,  hard  laugh  and  said : 

"I  saw  your  face  by  the  corner  light. 
Been  havin'  a  hard  day  of  it?" 

The  fear  of  breaking  down  kept  him 
from  answering.  He  gulped  painfully 
once  or  twice,  and  turned  his  face  away 
from  her.  Light  enough  from  a  street- 
lamp  shone  in  for  her  to  see. 

"I  was  rather  afraid  you  'd  refuse," 
she  said  seriously.  "Really,  I  wonder 
you  were  willin'  to  come!" 

£14*3 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"I  was — I  was  afraid  not  to."  He 
choked  out  the  confession  with  the  reck- 
lessness of  final  despair. 

"So?"  she  said,  with  another  short 
laugh.  Then  she  resumed  her  even, 
tired  monotone:  "Your  little  friend 
Cooley's  note  this  morning  gave  us  all  a 
rather  fair  notion  as  to  what  you  must  be 
thinkin'  of  us.  He  seems  to  have  found 
a  sort  of  walkin'  ' Who's- Who-on-the- 
Continent'  since  last  night.  Pity  for 
some  people  he  did  n't  find  it  before !  I 
don't  think  I  'm  sympathetic  with  your 
little  Cooley.  I  'guess,'  as  you  Yankees 
say,  'he  can  stand  it.'  But" — hervoicesud- 
denly  became  louder — "I  'm  not  in  the 
business  of  robbin'  babies  and  orphans,  no, 
my  dear  friends,  nor  of  helpin'  anybody 
else  to  rob  them  either ! — Here  you  are !" 


HIS-OWN-PEOPLE 


She  thrust  into  his  hand  a  small 
packet,  securely  wrapped  in  paper  and 
fastened  with  rubber  bands.  "There  's 
your  block  of  express  checks  for  six  hun- 
dred dollars  and  your  I  O  U  to  Sneyd 
with  it.  Take  better  care  of  it  next 
time." 

He  had  been  tremulous  enough,  but 
at  that  his  whole  body  began  to  shake 
violently. 

"What!"  he  quavered. 

"I  say,  take  better  care  of  it  next 
time,"  she  said,  dropping  again  into  her 
monotone.  "I  did  n't  have  such  an  easy 
time  gettin'  it  back  from  them  as  you 
might  think.  I  've  got  rather  a  sore 
wrist,  in  fact." 

She  paused  at  an  inarticulate  sound 
from  him. 

D44:] 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

"Oh,  that  's  soon  mended,"  she 
laughed  drearily.  "The  truth  is,  it  's 
been  a  good  thing  for  me — your  turning 
up.  They  're  gettin'  in  too  deep  water 
for  me,  Helene  and  her  friends,  and  I  've 
broken  with  the  lot,  or  they  've  broken 
with  me,  whichever  it  is.  We  could  n't 
hang  together  after  the  fightin'  we  've 
done  to-day.  I  had  to  do  a  lot  of  threat- 
enin'  and  things.  Welch  was  ugly,  so  I 
had  to  be  ugly  too.  Never  mind" — she 
checked  an  uncertain  effort  of  his  to 
speak— "I  saw  what  you  were  like,  soon 
as  we  sat  down  at  the  table  last  night — 
how  new  you  were  and  all  that.  It 
needed  only  a  glance  to  see  that  Helene 
had  made  a  mistake  about  you.  She  'd 
got  a  notion  you  were  a  millionaire  like 
the  little  Cooley,  but  I  knew  better  from 
L145H 


•H  IS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

your  talk.  She  's  clever,  but  she  's 
French,  and  she  can't  get  it  out  of  her 
head  that  you  could  be  an  American  and 
not  a  millionaire.  Of  course,  they  all 
knew  better  when  you  brought  out  your 
express  checks  and  talked  like  somebody 
in  one  of  the  old-time  story-books  about 
'debts  of  honor.'  Even  Helene  under- 
stood then  that  the  express  checks  were 
all  you  had."  She  laughed.  "I  did  n't 
have  any  trouble  gettin'  the  note  back!" 
She  paused  again  for  a  moment,  then 
resumed:  "There  is  n't  much  use  our 
goin'  over  it  all,  but  I  want  you  to  know 
one  thing.  Your  little  friend  Cooley 
made  it  rather  clear  that  he  accused 
Helene  and  me  of  signalin'.  Well,  / 
did  n't.  Perhaps  that 's  the  reason  you 
did  n't  lose  as  much  as  he  did;  I  can't 
D463 


•HIS-O  WN-PEOPLE- 

say.  And  one  thing  more :  all  this  is  n't 
goin'  to  do  you  any  harm.  I  'm  not  very 
keen  about  philosophy  and  religion  and 
that,  but  I  believe  if  you  're  let  in  for  a 
lot  of  trouble,  and  it  only  half  kills  you, 
you  can  get  some  good  of  it." 

"Do  you  think,"  he  stammered — "do 
you  think  I  'm  worth  saving?" 

She  smiled  faintly  and  said : 

"You '  ve  probably  got  a  sweetheart  in 
the  States  somewhere — a  nice  girl,  a 
pretty  young  thing  who  goes  to  church 
and  thinks  you  're  a  great  man,  perhaps? 
Is  it  so?" 

"I  am  not  worthy,"  he  began,  choked 
suddenly,  then  finished — "to  breathe  the 
same  air!" 

"That  's  quite  right,"  Lady  Mount- 
Rhys  wicke  assured  him.  "Think  what 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

you  'd  think  of  her  if  she  'd  got  herself 
into  the  same  sort  of  scrape  by  doin'  the 
things  you  've  been  doin' !  And  remem- 
ber that  if  you  ever  feel  impatient  with 
her,  or  have  any  temptations  to  superior- 
ity in  times  to  come.  And  yet" — for  the 
moment  she  spoke  earnestly — "you  go 
back  to  your  little  girl,  but  don't  you  tell 
her  a  word  of  this.  You  could  n't  even 
tell  her  that  meetin'  you  has  helped  me, 
because  she  would  n't  understand." 

"Nor  do  I.    I  can't." 

"Oh,  it 's  simple.  I  saw  that  if  I  was 
gettin3  down  to  where  I  was  robbin' 
babies  and  orphans  .  .  ."  The  cab 
halted.  "Here  's  your  corner.  I  told 
him  only  to  go  round  the  block  and  come 
back.  Good-by.  I  'm  off  for  Amalfi. 
It 's  a  good  place  to  rest." 


•HIS-OWN-PEOPLE- 

He  got  out  dazedly,  and  the  driver 
cracked  his  whip  over  the  little  horse; 
but  Mellin  lifted  a  detaining  hand. 

"A  spe?"  called  Lady  Mount-Rhys- 
wicke  to  the  driver.  "What  is  it,  Mr. 
Mellin?" 

"I  can't — I  can't  look  you  in  the 
face,"  he  stammered,  his  attitude  per- 
fectly corroborative  of  his  words.  "I 
would — oh,  I  would  kneel  in  the  dust 
here  before  you " 

"Some  of  the  poetry  you  told  me  you 
write?' 

"I  've  never  written  any  poetry,"  he 
said,  not  looking  up.  "Perhaps  I  can — 
now.  What  I  want  to  say  is — I  'm  so 
ashamed  of  it — I  don't  know  how  to  get 
the  words  out,  but  I  must.  I  may  never 
see  you  again,  and  I  must.  I  'm  sorry — 


•HIS-0  WN-PEOPLE- 

please  try  to  forgive  me — I  was  n't  my- 
self when  I  did  it " 

"Blurt  it  out;  that 's  the  best  way." 

"I  'm  sorry,"  he  floundered— "I  'm 
sorry  I  kissed  you." 

She  laughed  her  tired  laugh  and  said 
in  her  tired  voice  the  last  words  he  was 
ever  destined  to  hear  from  her : 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,  if  you  don't.  It 
was  so  innocent,  it  was  what  decided 
me." 

One  of  the  hundreds  of  good  saints 
that  belong  to  Rome  must  have  over- 
heard her  and  pitied  the  young  man,  for 
it  is  ascribable  only  to  some  such  special 
act  of  mercy  that  Mellin  understood 
(and  he  did)  exactly  what  she  meant. 

(  THE  END  ) 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  doe  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


fin 


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